The Collective Soul
by Collider
Summary: CC fic, set after "Family 8108". Scotty Valens is always there when his friends and family get hurt; he just wishes it wasn't always his fault.
1. No More, No Less

The Collective Soul

**1.  
No More, No Less**

* * *

Under the heated glare of five unapologetically suspicious pairs of eyes, Scotty Valens shifted uncomfortably. His own eyes, wide with hurt and disappointment that his so-called colleagues would think so little of him, wandered restlessly back and forth among the others, almost daring them to say something. And, yeah, if he was being honest, that was what he wanted. For them to stop playing games with him, stop staring at him, and just come out and make their accusations. Whatever the hell they thought he'd done, it couldn't possibly be as bad as spending another moment in the heat of those accusing eyes.

"So," he said, more to break the tension than out of any real desire to communicate with them. "This is how it feels to be a suspect?"

The faintest flicker of amusement crossed Nick Vera's face for a fraction of a second; if Scotty hadn't been paying such close attention to his colleagues' expressions, he would've missed it entirely. As it was, he caught it and took hold of it, seeing within the momentary lapse a chance of hope. Vera wasn't the sort to let his poker face crack so easily, not if he meant business. The fact that he'd allowed such a moment to touch his features suggested that maybe he wasn't entirely convinced of Scotty's involvement in… whatever the hell it was that had caused the entire team to be so goddamn suspicious in the first place.

As quickly as it had appeared, the flicker was gone, and a brutal silence descended once again over the office. Scotty sighed loudly, in part to ease the silence and in part to see if anybody else would let a momentary reaction call their bluff. A couple of long and painful minutes passed, wherein none of the others said or did anything to suggest why the hell they were all glaring at him, and – in spite of the voice in the back of his mind screaming at him to wait for them to crack first – Scotty felt his patience fading.

"You clowns gonna tell me what this is all about?" he asked, and the relief of having finally thrown the question out there flooded through him. This way, even if he _had_ done whatever the hell they thought he'd done, at least he was still in charge, calling them out on their intimidation BS and daring them to come clean and outright accuse him already. It was, in an odd sort of way, empowering.

"C'mon, Scotty…" As usual, Lilly Rush was the first to speak… and, as usual, it was with her characteristic note of near-sympathy, something that he was fairly certain none of the others would've bothered with if they'd taken the opportunity to speak first. She smiled at him, almost sadly. "Did you really think you could keep something like that secret from the rest of us?" Her eyes broke from his for a moment, flashing briefly over her fellow interrogators, before resting firmly on Vera. "Especially when you know Mr. I-Can't-Let-Anyone-Else-Keep-Secrets is sitting barely three feet away?"

Once again, Vera's amusement got the better of him, and his steely-faced resolve gave way to a self-satisfied smirk; as before, the moment was short-lived… not through the man's own doing this time, instead being a direct response to the dangerous '_you sure as hell better not be proud of that' _glare that Kat Miller was shooting him. Scotty too found himself grinning a little there, recalling all too well the one and only time that Vera's anti-secrets campaign had been aimed at the team's newbie. Needless to say, with Miller keeping that glare in her well-stocked armory, it wasn't something he was likely to try again. Ever.

Unfortunately for Scotty, neither was grinning under the scrutiny of his still-scowling comrades, and the smile quickly fell from his face as he realised that the brief levity hadn't let him off the hook. He sighed, again, and held out his hands. "I got nothin'. Give me something to work with, here… can't defend myself if I don't know the charges." His eyes rested on Lil, hoping she'd be the one to continue, not least of all because that soft near-sympathy was more than a little reassuring given his current situation.

Instead, it was Vera. "Donuts, Scotty," he said, and – despite the fact that his eyes were steely and serious – Scotty couldn't help relaxing a little. "Under your desk. Hidden from the rest of us." He caught the relieved expression on Scotty's face, and his face darkened. "You think I'm kidding?" He turned and gestured towards John Stillman. "Tell him, Boss… withholding donuts is a serious crime."

Scotty laughed; after ten minutes spent trying to figure out why everyone was treating him like a convicted criminal, it felt damn good. "You're crazy," he said, fixing his eyes on Vera even as his words addressed them all. "You got me thinking I'm on trial or something, and all you want is a lousy donut? What, it suddenly ain't cool to say '_yo Scotty, gimme a donut'_, you gotta put me on trial for it?"

"You bet your ass we do." It was Will Jeffries this time, and there was no mistaking the look of outrage on his face. "You know the rules. You bring snacks in here, you share 'em." He leaned forward, looking Scotty right in the eye, solemn and deadly serious. "You_ share_ them. You don't hide 'em under your desk and hopes no-one realises you've been hording." He lowered his gaze, and suddenly looked almost genuinely wounded. As if it was a personal slight. "The team that snacks together stays together."

Scotty rolled his eyes. "Slow day in the office or something? You guys really need a hobby…" Off their faces, which didn't soften in the wake of his comment, he sighed for what felt like the billionth time and gave up the fight. "Fine. Lemme off with a warning, I'll buy some more donuts and share 'em with everyone. Nice ones. That good enough for you sugar vultures?" He raised his eyebrows.

"That's all we're asking," Jeffries replied, smiling.

Shaking his head in disbelief, Scotty climbed to his feet. "You're a bunch of freaks," he said, though he couldn't quite keep a hint of affection from touching his voice.

Kat waved a hand. "Donuts now, whining later."

"This ain't whining," Scotty retorted, sounding petulant to his own ears. "You wanna hear whining? I can give you whining. I can give you whining like you never—"

"We don't want whining," Lilly pointed out, cutting him off with that characteristic gentleness that made him want to simultaneously hug her and kick her upside the head. "We want donuts." She was enunciating very slowly, pushing him more towards the 'kicking' side than the 'hugging' one, a mindset that wasn't really helped as she continued, "You think you can handle that all by yourself?"

He muttered a handful of obscenities under his breath as he made for the door. He paused, just before departing on his forced donut run, and turned to face the others once more, the gesture coming across as an afterthought. "You know I hate you all, don'tcha?" he said, at last. Though he didn't expect a response, he nonetheless waited, and – when none came – turned back to the door (which he could've sworn was mocking him too). "Bunch of jackasses," he muttered and, finally defeated, stomped out.

-

* * *

-

Fortunately (or rather unfortunately, depending on whose perspective you were looking at it from), Scotty's donut misdemeanour was merely the latest in a growing string of inter-office pranks and foolishness. With the much-welcome return of Stillman to his position as the team's leader (amid the inevitable "rumours of my retirement were greatly exaggerated"), they were all slowly beginning to ease their way back into characteristic good spirits, for the first time since the fateful Jacobi case and its subsequent backlash had thrown them all into darkness. Even the elusive Lilly Rush had been caught smiling, which was a phenomenon the rest of the team had frankly begun to suspect would never happen again, given her condition following the Jacobi case. For the first time in what seemed like years, things were finally back to normal.

Another welcome change that didn't hurt either, the pile of incoming work was uncharacteristically small. At that moment, waiting on Scotty to return with the promised donuts, the only sound in the office that could be described as even vaguely interesting was the all-too-familiar exchange of insults being passed between Vera and Miller… and, well, that wasn't exactly anything new, was it?

There was no denying the fondness the two had for each other, even through all the bad-mouthing they regularly engaged in. Respect wasn't an emotion that came easily to either of them; Vera's suspicion towards newcomers who dared try and infiltrate his happy home, coupled with his innate chauvinism, had left their relationship more than a little shaky for Kat's first few weeks in Homicide… and, she supposed, she hadn't really helped much by being so guarded in the first place. Her rules were pretty simple: '_my life is none of your goddamn business'_. Unfortunately for her, Vera's rules were also pretty simple – '_you play on my turf, your life is forfeit'_ – and they had already clashed several times before he had taken the law into his own hands and dug up her most closely-guarded secret. She'd never forget the look of shame on his face as he'd discovered the truth behind her enigmatic Wednesday nights and, in an odd sort of way, it had helped them both come to accept each other. He'd realised exactly why she'd been so protective of her secrets, and she'd realised that maybe (just maybe) he did know when he'd crossed the line. Not that she'd ever let him forget it, of course.

Lacking in anything of substance to argue about, their current dispute had arisen from what Kat had assumed to be a nice offer on her part to teach Vera how to play Minesweeper. He, of course, had taken offence to the insinuation that he was incapable of figuring it out for himself… and, being Nick Vera, had promptly nuked the entire field in two moves and then blamed her for distracting him.

"Uh huh…" she said, rolling her eyes dramatically for the benefit of her captive audience – or, to use its given name, Will Jeffries. "Sure. It's my fault you suck."

"You bet your ass it is," he agreed, injecting no small amount of humiliated bitterness into his voice; this was just fine with Kat, as – so far as she was concerned – there was no Vera quite so endearing as a humiliated and bitter one. "I had the top score 'till you showed up."

Jeffries laughed sharply at that. "That's because you were the only one who played it," he pointed out with a smirk. "The rest of us were busy solving murders."

"Excuses, excuses…" Vera said, shaking his head at the comment and turning back to Kat. "They were jealous. Never even tried taking me on, 'cause they knew they didn't stand a chance against the big guy." He leaned his chair back, punctuating this assertion with a manly yawn.

For a few long moments, words failed Kat Miller. All she could do, until such a point as Vera believed to have proven himself to be suitably macho and returned his chair to a less ridiculous position, was stare at him with her patented '_is this guy for real?'_ eyebrow raise. For his part, Jeffries just shook his head at both of them. He, of course, was long used to Vera's ego by now (not that it would bother him, even if he wasn't), and it always seemed to amuse him to watch Kat get so worked up when facing it.

"I don't know what in the hell Toni sees in you," she said, finally. Vera's grin only widened at that, and she sighed. "Poor woman must have self-esteem issues."

Much to her relief (though, of course, she would deny feeling that particular emotion if questioned), Vera was cut off before he had the chance to reply, by the loud crash of a door being shut a little too hard. This, of course, marked Scotty's return from his vitally important donut run, and it was frankly the best outcome that Kat could've hoped for, to see Vera forced to surrender victory to her (for the six hundredth time) and to be able to celebrate that victory herself with the world's biggest jelly donut.

At least, that was the plan. As was often the case in Homicide, donut-shaped celebration was seldom permitted for more than a nanosecond before something more pressing came along… and, as was often the case when dealing with Nick Vera, a victory was never a victory until someone put up a white flag. Moreover, as was often the case when dealing with Life In General, each of these awkward and annoying situational disasters (all perfectly designed, of course, to piss her off as much as possible) came flooding down upon her in an inevitable torrent of frustration and vindication, leaving her reeling furiously.

It seemed at first that she'd escape unscathed. A few moments before Scotty reached the desk where they'd all assembled themselves (except Lilly, of course, who'd kept her usual distance from the rest of them), Stillman came strolling out of his office with that sombre and purposeful expression that silently seemed to say '_I hope none of you have any plans for the next twelve hours'_.

"We got a job, Boss?" Lilly was asking, already on her feet before Kat even had the chance to get her head around that message beneath Stillman's expression.

Stillman shrugged. "Got an anonymous tip-off. Might amount to nothing, but…" Another shrug, this one making the quiet point that it was their job to humour every whack-job who thought they'd found something useful. And Kat knew that better than most. Hell, if they hadn't humoured her when she'd been the whack-job who thought they'd found something useful, she wouldn't be here now. It wasn't a pleasant thought, wandering who-only-knew how many miles just to find that it had been a complete waste of time… but she knew well enough that the prospect of ignoring a call that had even the slimmest chance of turning up something useable was a far more unpleasant one, and a resigned, acceptant sigh left her lips.

"What's the deal?" Vera asked, pressing on.

Stillman reeled off an address. "Place is derelict. Guy says he broke in, figured he could make a few bucks thieving anything that's left there, and selling it off…"

"Real upstanding citizen," Jeffries quipped.

"Reason enough to want himself kept anonymous," Stillman replied with yet another shrug, shaking both points off without any further thought. "Anyway… apparently, it's one of those gothic places. You know the type, kids make up ghost stories about it, dare their friends to see if they're true." He let this sink in for a moment, eyes wandering across his team with an expression that clearly understood their cynicism but had no intention of letting this one slide. "So, of course, our upstanding citizen now swears blind he's seen a dead body in there." His shoulders heaved, not in a shrug this time but in a weary sigh.

Scotty dropped the box of donuts unceremoniously on the table, echoing Stillman's sigh with one of his own. "I'll go check it out if you want, Boss," he offered.

Kat dragged her gaze away from the donuts and stared at him. "You're _volunteering_?" she asked, wondering briefly whether he was mad about the donut thing.

"Sure," Scotty replied, his face the picture of indifference. "Ain't like there's anything else going down right now." He eyed her curiously. "You wanna come too?"

_No_, Kat thought. _I wanna stay here and eat donuts and make Vera feel bad about himself_. Aloud, she didn't say anything, painfully aware of the piercing look Stillman was giving her. Of course, she'd just had to open her big mouth, hadn't she? Couldn't just keep quiet, wait for Scotty to leave (inevitably with Lilly, who'd been climbing the walls with boredom all morning), and then spend the rest of the morning eating donuts. No. She had to go and open her mouth. "I, uh…" she started, flailing.

"She'd love to," Vera interjected quickly. "She was just telling me how she was going nuts sitting around up here with nothing to do. Ain't that right, Miller?"

"I…" Any chance she might've had at arguing the point disappeared under the headlight of Stillman's eyes. Clearly, as far as he was concerned, the decision was already made; there was no point arguing now, it'd just make her look worse than she already did. And, even though she'd been on the team for over two years now, she still hadn't quite managed to shake that feeling of being the newbie who could get kicked out just because her boss was in a bad mood. Besides, if there was one thing she'd learned while working Homicide, it was to roll with the punches. She'd get Vera back for his cheap shot, later.

And so she surrendered to the inevitable, nodding in affirmation at Stillman and Scotty with as much dignity as she could muster. But, of course, she wasn't quite dignified enough to leave without firing one more round at the bastard who'd landed her in this position. "I swear, Vera… you even look at my donut while I'm gone, I'll kick your ass so hard you won't be able to sit for a week."

The roar of his laughter followed her all the way into the street.

* * *

**TBC**


	2. Better Now

_A/N: Just a quick thank-you to those of you who took the time to review the first chapter of this one, and also my other CC fic. Feedback is always very much appreciated, and you've just been so positive, it's wonderful. Thanks. :-D_

**2.  
Better Now**

* * *

"You know your precious donut is gonna be ancient history before you get back, right?" 

"You know you're gonna get popped in the mouth if you say that one more time, right?"

Scotty grinned broadly. It had almost been worth wasting an entire morning at the local bakery queuing for a box of donuts he wouldn't even be allowed to eat, just to see the look of utter indignation that now flitted across Kat's face as they made their way (at a pace that was probably more leisurely than it should've been) towards the supposed address of Stillman's mystery house.

"I'm just sayin'," he went on, ignoring her vicious glare. "You've been in the game long enough now, you know how it works. Guy already had means and motive; you just handed him opportunity on a silver platter. And you know Vera ain't the type to let slide an opportunity to piss you off. You've beat him at his own game too many times." He allowed his grin to spread painfully wide, for no other reason than that he knew it would make her even more irate. "Payback don't taste so good, huh?"

Kat made an unpleasant noise deep within her throat, and lit a cigarette. "You don't shut the hell up, there's gonna be another dead body in this place."

Content that he'd made his point (and somehow resisting the urge to throw out a much-needed "I thought you'd quit…" in the direction of the cigarette), Scotty settled into a comfortable silence. Fact was, if either Kat or Nick ever chose to invest half as much time into solving murders as they did into their efforts to out-quip each other, he was pretty certain the rest of the team would be out of a job. And, as much as it sobered him to think it, there was no doubt in his mind that he'd be the first to go. He'd screwed up too much lately – let too many people get hurt – and one day he'd need to pay the price.

Maybe that was why he offered fuel for the Miller And Vera Two-Man Circus at every opportunity he got. Watching them fight, seeing the obvious respect they held for each other which underlay all the criticism and the bitter words and the quips, and knowing that – if anything serious ever went down, for either of them – they'd throw the quips aside in an instant and just be there for each other… yeah, there was something consoling in that. It reminded him, every day, that they were a family.

Both of them wore their hearts on their sleeves; maybe that was why. Anyone could see, from a thousand miles away, how much they cared about each other, and it was an affection that Scotty found deeply contagious. More so, almost, than those rare but cherished moments of genuine tenderness that he shared with Lilly. He'd always felt that the connection between himself and her was something rare and precious, especially within the cut-throat industry they worked in every goddamn day, and it was a bond that he took very seriously. Or had taken seriously. There was no denying the extent to which the Jacobi case and Lilly's brush with near-death had shaken his faith in himself and his ability to be there when he said he would. It was the nature of what they did, he knew. Yeah, it was impossible for him to watch her back every minute of every day, but it had been his belief that a good partner did exactly that, irregardless of how possible it was.

He had let Lilly down. Oh, she'd been the first to say that he'd actually saved her life by doing what he did, but as far as he was concerned it wasn't enough. He shouldn't have let it happen in the first place. He knew Stillman felt the same way, and maybe that was why he'd opted to take the punishment leave in Scotty's place (and, if he was being honest, Scotty really didn't know whether he was grateful for that or just furious). But it wasn't the same. Stillman was their boss. It was his duty to feel responsible for the fates of all his men, and especially Lilly Rush. Stillman felt guilty because it was his job to carry that weight, no matter the situation. It was different for Scotty. He'd made a promise. For the hundredth time, he'd made a promise to protect someone he cared about and, for the hundredth time, he had been unable to keep it.

It was different for Vera and Miller. There were no promises shared between those two, but the knowledge was there, just as strong as it had been for Scotty and Lilly, and it didn't need to be spoken… maybe _because_ it didn't need to be spoken. If a promise wasn't made, then it sure as hell couldn't be broken, and Scotty envied that. He wasn't like them; if he felt something, he needed to articulate it, to make sure the entire world knew every facet of what he was thinking. And that was what got him in trouble. Maybe the whole Jacobi mess would've gone down differently if he hadn't been so open in the first place. Maybe he would've got there faster, or pulled the trigger earlier, or done any one of a million things that wouldn't have had the end result of him letting Lilly get shot. What would Kat have done, he wondered, if it had been Vera? And, if she would've done the exact same thing, would she be beating herself up over it now?

"How d'you do it?" he asked, aloud.

Kat stopped in mid-step, turning to blink at him with eyes that were narrowed in both curiosity and annoyance at the unnecessary interruption. "Huh?"

"You and Vera," he explained, which only served to deepen the puzzled crease in her forehead. "C'mon. You can't pretend like you wouldn't kick down a cast-iron door in bare feet if you thought he needed you to. That hard-ass show you guys put on ain't foolin' no-one." The confused frown was giving way to one of frustration now, so he pressed on before she had the chance to slug him. "I'm just sayin'. You and him, you ain't so different from me an' Lil, ya know?" He paused, letting her absorb the comparison, before continuing with an uneasiness that he didn't like one little bit. "And you two, you spend all your time tryin' to see who can kick the other's ass the hardest, but you know, if you needed him he'd be right there without even thinking." He took a deep breath. "He'd just be there. You wouldn't even need to say 'hey'."

By the time he'd finished, Kat had stopped blinking entirely. "Yeah. The day I say 'hey' to Nick Vera is gonna be the day the Earth stops rotating," she said. She tilted her head to study him, and her expression clouded a little with the realisation that he was being deadly serious. "Is this about you and Lil?" she asked, speaking very slowly; she was clearly aware of the fact that she was venturing into territory that was absolutely none of her business and seemed intent on proceeding with caution.

"Kinda," he said evasively. "I dunno." He shrugged, and slipped back into a slow walking pace, in part to continue the mission they'd been sent out here on in the first place, but mostly because walking helped him to gather his thoughts, and he suddenly found himself in desperate need of some thought-gathering before he could carry on. "I guess. I kinda… told Lil I'd be there if she needed me." Off the look on her face, which visibly said '_so what?'_, he elaborated uncomfortably. "During the Jacobi case. Before she got shot. Told her all she had to do was say 'hey' and I'd be there." He sighed heavily.

As he'd moved on again, she hadn't. She'd stood there, where he'd left her, watching him go. It wasn't until he was done explaining his train of thought – or part of it, at least – that she put out her cigarette and moved to catch up. "You _were_ there," she reminded him, with a gentleness that he realised the team didn't see in her often enough. "If you hadn't been—" She cut herself off with an involuntary shiver, and changed tack. "She needed you, and you were there. Not seeing the problem."

"She got shot." It was a simple statement of fact, but Scotty couldn't keep the anger from his voice as he uttered the words. "That's the problem. I said I had her back, and I didn't. I was too goddamn slow." And now he was the one cutting himself off, not with the reflective anxiety that had been Kat's undoing, but with the deep self-hatred that had fuelled his mind for months.

The expression on Kat's face had shifted as he spoke, and her eyes were now filled with a sad kind of pity. "We're cops, Scotty. Getting shot? Kinda part of the job description." She cuffed him on the shoulder, the motion having the dual effect of lightening the mood and reminding him that she more than likely had a mean right hook. "Hell, you're probably the only one of us who _hasn't_ been shot yet." For a single, almost intangible moment, her eyes darkened. Scotty felt a twinge of guilt at the realisation that his outburst had quite possibly dredged up memories of her own time spent on the receiving end of a bullet, an assumption that seemed to be pretty well confirmed as she exhaled sharply and lit another cigarette.

"Sorry," he murmured softly, making no attempt at explaining precisely what he was sorry for. No point dwelling on the issue unless she wanted to.

A careless shrug and a long drag of the cigarette, and her mask of optimism was firmly back in place. "Point is, crap like this happens all the time. Nothin' you can do to stop it, unless you're Superman. And, gotta be honest with you, Valens… you don't have the body to be Superman." On that note, her eyes wandered shamelessly over him. "Lois Lane, sure. But not Superman."

"Oh, it's going down like that, huh?" he muttered, injecting just the right amount of sarcasm into his voice. The harshness in his tone belied the genuine gratitude he felt for her dragging the melancholy conversation back to its usual light-hearted safety. "Better watch your mouth, Miller. You keep emasculating all the boys on the force, you ain't gonna have any friends left."

"Someone's gotta take down your egos," Kat pointed out with a grin, then sobered. "And you gotta stop beating yourself up. Wasn't your fault, what happened to Lil, and no-one's blaming you except you. You got issues keeping your promises? Don't make 'em."

At that, Scotty couldn't quite keep the look of surprise from touching his face; much as he'd opened up to her – and he was rather embarrassed at himself for doing that – he hadn't used the word 'promises' to pinpoint the nature of his frustration, and it perplexed the hell out of him that she'd been so insightful as to pick up on the concept behind his words without his ever needing to say it. Of course, he supposed, it was exactly this sort of insight that had led Stillman to recruit her onto the team in the first place… and, no doubt, having a kid to deal with (because kids sure as hell spoke in tongues most of the time) had left her more than a little skilled at interpreting double-speak. Still, he couldn't quite keep from shaking his head at her deductive skills, a gesture that was quickly followed by irritation at the fact that she was in fact right.

"Easier said than done," he said.

"You bet your ass it is," she agreed easily. "Our line of work? It's not what you say, it's what you do. We all know we got each other, there's not one of us needs convincing of that. What in the hell good is it gonna do anyone to kill the mood by making promises, huh?"

Scotty shook his head at the comment; it was scary, how good at this she was. "How did we ever survive before you showed up?" he asked, deadpan.

"Just askin' myself the same question," she retorted, matching his tone perfectly. Her eyes left his, and – for the second time – she stilled her footsteps as she studied the building that now stood opposite them. Her nose wrinkled in disdain at the sight of it; Scotty knew she didn't exactly come from providence herself, but there was no denying the state the house was in, and it was all he could do not to grimace too. "Guess this is the place," Kat continued. "Let's get this party started."

-

* * *

-

To call the place 'derelict' was rather like calling the Sahara Desert 'a bit hot'. As a single mother in a job that barely even paid the rent, Kat Miller knew all about squalor, but this so-called derelict house took the concept of squalor to a whole new level. If there _was_ a dead body in here, they'd be hard-pushed to find it underneath all the crap and debris that littered every corner of the hallway. Which rather begged the question of how Stillman's anonymous tip-off had found it in the first place, but she was willing to let that slide for the moment. After all, she'd barely got both feet through the door before she'd started judging, and it was possible that the rest of the house would be less horrible to behold. Not likely, but possible.

"Man," said Scotty, from where he stood beside her. She had seen him try to keep back his own reaction as they'd observed the outside of the building, but now – once they were inside – he too was a victim to his notions of class, and was wincing even more than she was.

"Yeah," she agreed quietly. Her eyes raked the room, moving slowly from the floor (which she assumed was there somewhere, under the rotted planks and mouldy carpet), up the walls (which she assumed were there somewhere, under the peeling paint and dissolving plaster), to the ceiling (which most definitely was not there somewhere, being instead a gigantic hole where the floor above had once been). "Makes my hellhole of an apartment look like Chestnut Hill," she went on, her eyes returning to meet Scotty's. "Can't believe you volunteered for this. Least I got the whole 'Vera made me do it' thing as an excuse."

Scotty rolled his eyes. "You gonna stand here all day and complain, or we gonna toss this place?" he asked, the hint of a grin playing at the corners of his lips.

Once they'd got started, Kat was rather surprised by how little time it took to scour the ground level of the disaster zone. Much as the house looked like it had been hit by an incoming meteor, it didn't take much in the way of digging through the crap and decay to discover that there was no sign of anything even vaguely resembling a crime scene. Of course, there was absolutely no doubt in her mind that, as soon as they opted to climb the stairs and continue their search upwards (as they would inevitably have to), the task at hand would become more difficult, given the innate lack of floor in most of the rooms.

If she was being completely honest, she was making a special point of taking just a little bit longer on the final room than she strictly had to. A cursory glance across the mess was more than enough to inform her that there sure as hell wasn't a dead body there, but she couldn't quite face the thought of having to climb the stairs and probably spend the rest of the morning dodging twenty-foot holes in the floor, just so she could waltz back into the office (assuming she didn't fall into one of the holes and die a slow and humiliating death), smack Vera upside the head for eating her donut, and inevitably spend the entire afternoon writing up a report that could be summed up simply by scrawling 'Waste Of Time' on a post-it note.

As it turned out, she wasn't alone in dreading this particular leg of the investigation; making her way with no small amount of reluctance towards the rickety old staircase (and she couldn't help wishing for a moment that it would collapse entirely before she had the chance to ascend it), she once again caught Scotty's eye, and there was no mistaking the look of abject horror on his face as he directed his gaze upwards. For a moment, they both stood there, both unable to bring themselves to take the first step, and both equally wishing they could just end things there by saying 'right, we're clearly done here'.

"What're you waiting for?" Scotty asked finally, tearing his eyes away from the lack of ceiling and facing Kat with a scowl. "You scared of heights or somethin'?"

Kat glared. "Me? No. You? I'm thinking yes."

He raised his eyebrows at the obvious feint at reverse psychology, but Kat held fast. There was no way in hell he was gonna drop this one on her; he was the idiot who'd wanted to be here in the first place, and he was the goddamn man. It was his responsibility, as the guy who'd volunteered, and as the guy with the Y chromosome and the chauvinistic ego, to take that first step and make sure the stairs were safe for the helpless lady cop who'd been tricked into coming along. Didn't matter that this particular lady cop could floor him in one punch if she wanted to. It was _his_ damn responsibility, plain and simple.

"We in the fourth grade, now?" Scotty shot at her. Though his words were uncertain (and, oh yeah, every bit as immature as hers), the infuriatingly smug look on his face suggested he was holding all the aces. "C'mon, Miller. You know you're goin' up first." He said it as if it was so obvious he couldn't believe she was even trying to argue it. "We both know it. 'Cause we both know, if you chicken out, the whole squad is gonna hear about it soon as we get back, and we both know you ain't gonna let that happen. You've worked too hard on that tough-chick image of yours to throw it away on some lousy flight of stairs."

For a couple of long minutes, Kat opened and closed her mouth like a fish gasping for air (or possibly water; she wasn't entirely sure how that metaphor worked). Much as she wanted a witty retort to be forthcoming, there was none to be found in the recesses of her mind, and the best she could come up with was to flip the finger and warn him in no uncertain terms that, if Vera really had eaten her donut, it would be Scotty's damn responsibility to make sure she got a new one. And a better one, too.

"You owe me, bigtime," she muttered bitterly, and climbed gingerly onto the first rickety step. Scotty, for his part, stood there and laughed to himself. Right then and there, in spite of the donuts that his faux-trial had made promise of, she hated him and everything he stood for.

To her surprise (and it was a surprise she made no attempt to hide), the stairs were much sturdier than they'd first appeared, supporting her weight with ease. She settled into a rhythm as she ascended, moving more comfortably with each step she passed… partially because her confidence was growing with every moment she didn't fall through the near-rotted floorboards, but mostly because she wanted Scotty to see without any shadow of doubt that she had absolute faith in those floorboards to hold her.

In part out of relief at having made it, and in part through some residual bitterness at Scotty for making her go first, she couldn't quite resist the temptation – as she finally reached the top of the staircase safe and sound – to glance lazily back down at him with an outcry of "who's chicken now, huh, Valens?" before proceeding into the adjacent room with scarcely even a second's hesitation.

She realised the danger of her self-imposed game of one-upsmanship before she'd even fully entered the room in question. The telltale creaking of the staircase told her that Scotty was now following in her footsteps, making his way cautiously up the unstable staircase, and Kat had to struggle to keep from calling out to him and insisting that he turn the hell around and run away right then. Quite simply, the one and only thing that kept her from making that fatal mistake and warning her colleague of the trouble that awaited him, was the unmistakeable ice-cold barrel of a Colt .45 handgun, pointed directly at her chest.

* * *

**TBC**


	3. Turn

_A/N: Once again, SO many thanks to everyone who's taken the time to review. It's so flattering that such great fic-writers would take the time to comment on mine. In particular, I'm a huge fan of oucellogal's ongoing "Every Time Two Fools Collide", but everyone is just so talented it's humbling. :-)_

**3.  
Turn**

* * *

In retrospect, Scotty would flatter himself that he'd known something wasn't right. He'd tell himself that he'd known something was up, and had only continued to blithely follow the route Kat had set because he still felt that he had something to prove, that it was his duty to protect whoever the hell he was partnered with, and that somehow charging headlong into another potentially lethal situation would somehow free him from the guilt of the Jacobi case. He'd try so damn hard to believe all that, because it was just too humiliating to dwell upon the fact that he was now staring at a situation so horribly similar to the one that he (more even, he suspected, than Lilly) still hadn't recovered from, and hadn't even seen it coming. 

The glint of metal from the .45 was the first thing he saw, realising several seconds later that the bastard holding it was more than six feet tall. Why, he wondered, was it always the tiny little details that stood out in scenarios like this, while the giant six-foot bleached blond thug went conveniently unnoticed for almost a full minute? The concept was doubly frustrating given that the guy in question had clearly noticed his arrival long before Scotty had observed him. His eyes – steel grey to match the gun – were narrowed, and had fixed themselves firmly on Scotty even as the .45 remained pointed squarely at Kat.

For her part, Kat had clearly sensed Scotty's presence coming up behind her, as her shoulders slumped in what he assumed – though he couldn't see her face – was a gesture of absolute defeat. "Hey, Valens…" she said (and Scotty couldn't help being impressed by how steady she'd kept her voice). "I found our dead body." She grunted. "He's not as dead as the boss thought he was."

Scotty tore his eyes from the gun-toting thug for a moment, staring at the back of Kat's head with utter disbelief. He was just about to throw out some comment along the lines of '_what tipped you off, genius?'_, when he found himself interrupted by the aforementioned thug, who was now regarding him with an entirely different expression. Where before his entire face had been contorted with suspicion and an aura that suggested he'd be perfectly willing to waste them both if he thought for a moment that either of them would offer a threat, he was now staring at Scotty with a look that – if he didn't know better – he'd swear was hoping for some kind of profit. Yeah. As if anyone would be dumb enough to pay ransom on _him_.

"Valens?" The guy's voice had that rough-edged quality that left Scotty wondering if he'd been drinking gravel, but the softness with which he uttered the name suggested a different tone entirely. He took a single lightning-fast step forward, closing the gap between himself and Kat before either cop could react, and pressed the .45 tight against her stomach; all the while, his eyes never left Scotty's. He spoke again, punctuating each word by jabbing the gun into Kat's gut, just to ensure there was no mistaking what was at risk if Scotty screwed around in his answer. "Are you telling me _you're_ Scotty Valens?"

A grimace fought its way across Scotty's features. One of the things he hated about incidents like this (he wasn't prepared to call it a 'hostage' scenario yet, the word still having those painful connotations of the Jacobi case) was the fact that they clamped down on his wise-cracking. The problem with life-or-death situations was, well, the fact that they were a matter of life and death. A wrong word, an off-kilter tone, a questionable glance… anything could land a bullet in a cop's chest faster than anyone could get to them; experience had drilled that into Scotty's head more times than he cared to think of.

But that wasn't who he was. He wasn't some simpering sap of a so-called cop, who got put into a corner by some jackass with a happy trigger finger, and suddenly became the guy's loyal servant. He was Scotty goddamn Valens. He was the guy who stood up and called the jackass on his BS and damn well let them know he wasn't scared of them. He threw out his wise-cracks and made his smartass comments about how pathetic that jackass must be to try something so damn stupid on a cop.

And it was rather ironic, he thought, that – of all the guys on the team – he was stuck here in this situation with Kat Miller. Kat Miller, who was just as quick to throw out a wise-crack and a smartass comment, and who was just as determined to never let some jackass with a happy trigger finger walk all over her just because he had a bigger artillery than she did. And maybe she would've forgiven him if he'd surrendered to his bad habits and thrown out a wise-crack that might cost her life ('cause he was pretty sure she was still new enough that, if she was the one being questioned and he the one with a gun pointed at his belly, she would've done just that without thinking), but the crux of the matter was, he wouldn't have been able to forgive himself. He'd seen too many people hurt by his idiotic decisions to let it happen again now.

"Yeah," he said, finally. "That's me."

Of course, Kat wasn't as prone as Scotty to worry about the supposed threat against her life. He still couldn't see her face, not wanting to anger the guy by shifting from his current position behind her, but he rather suspected there was a characteristic scowl wandering across it right at that moment, as she squared her shoulders and visibly straightened her spine. "You gonna quit poking me with that rusty spoon and explain why that's relevant?" she asked, making it clear from her refusal to mince words that she was happy to consider her life forfeit if it gave her leave to verbally abuse the bastard.

"Miller…" Scotty heard himself murmuring, the word coming across as a soft warning that carried with it very clear undertones of '_don't push this guy'_. He understood, probably more than anyone else on the team, just how much she needed to focus on that hard-ass image of hers right at that moment. He knew it was probably the only defence mechanism she had right then, to keep her strong and resolved in the face of something that could end her life in less than a heartbeat. Moreover, he respected it, and a small part of him praised her stubborn refusal to accept that she was in very real danger… but, just as it was her duty to do everything within her power to keep herself from panicking in situations like this, it was also her responsibility to remember that she had a daughter, who really kinda needed her mom to keep breathing.

He didn't need to say any of this aloud, thankfully. Once again, her shoulders slumped ever so slightly, and – further running a risk that she probably shouldn't have – she turned her head a couple of degrees to try and catch his eye. "Yeah," she said, exhaling with a combination of acceptance and frustration; the word and the exhalation combined to let him know she'd received the message he'd been trying to convey simply by saying her name, and he nodded. Maybe this was why they always did this stuff in pairs; the hell with making yourself less targettable, sometimes you just needed someone at your back to remind you when to draw the line between courage and stupidity. That brief, almost unspoken conversation finished, she twisted herself back to face the guy who still held her at gunpoint, his thumb playing idly over the hammer.

When the jackass made no attempt to respond to Kat's prior question, Scotty took the initiative himself, trying for a different tack. "You want me?" he began, choosing his words as carefully as the situation let him. "That's great. I get that. A lot of people want me dead."

A cruel smirk lifted the corner of the guy's lips. "Got a high opinion of yourself, don'tcha?" he remarked, and took a single step backwards. Kat's body deflated to the point that Scotty briefly wondered if she was about to physically collapse from the relief as the gun was forced to retreat with its owner. It remained neatly pointed at her, however, but the space to breathe was clearly something for which she was deeply thankful. As before, the jackass kept his eyes fixed upon Scotty as if they were held there by some gravitational force. "It's not me that's got a warrant out on you," he explained. "Hell, I could down you in one shot if I wanted to." Eyeing him up and down, the guy shook his head in disdain (a gesture that Scotty couldn't help taking offence at; first Kat's earlier Superman comment, and now this – what was it with people trying to emasculate him today?). "Probably blindfolded, too. Not exactly the peak of physical perfection, are ya?"

"Yeah, yeah…" Scotty muttered to himself. "Funny stuff. I'm a big tub of lard. Don't even wanna know what that makes Vera." Despite the seriousness of their predicament, Kat let out an involuntary giggle at that, and the jackass brought his finger slowly and deliberately over the gun's trigger, a motion that swiftly brought Scotty back to reality. "Okay," he said quickly. "Seems kinda twisted, don't it? You know my name, you're wavin' an outdated pistol about threatening to shoot this charming young hell-bitch—" at which he gestured slowly and cautiously towards Kat before returning his arm carefully back to his side "—don't suppose you feel like explaining why in the hell you're doing all that, if you ain't got no beef with me?"

The answer came, not from the jackass, but from Kat. Her resolve strengthened by no longer having her circulation cut off by the gun, she ventured a spoken response for the first time since he'd warned her to keep quiet. "He's a merc," she said quietly, but in a tone of voice that clearly implied she felt Scotty should've reached this conclusion himself by this point. "Gets paid to do someone else's dirty work 'cause the guy who actually wants you dead isn't smart enough to handle a sidearm."

Maybe it was the way she expressed it, but the guy seemed to take some twisted sort of pride in this assertion. A smug grin crossed his face, and he gave her a patronising pat on the head before again returning his focus to Scotty. "Don't worry your little head about who's paying me," he said, pride replaced by malice as the grin shifted subtly. "He doesn't want you dead, either."

-

* * *

-

From where she stood, Kat could sense Scotty reacting to this revelation. He was surprised, though she didn't know why. To her, at least, it was obvious. If the guy wanted him dead, he'd had countless opportunities to take him out, but instead had kept the gun pointedly trained on her the entire time. Clearly, if one of them had to end up dead, he was making damn sure it wasn't gonna be his meal ticket. That was cool, as far as she was concerned; the one plus side to having been shot was the understanding that it happened, and the knowledge that here she was, nearly three years on, still alive and kicking. Taking a bullet wasn't the end-of-the-world disaster it had once been (hell, more cops were getting shot nowadays than staying clean), and she'd already steeled herself for the possibility that she might be taking another before this encounter was through.

It was Scotty she was worried about, here, not herself. However optimistic he'd pretended to be in the aftermath of their earlier discussion, she knew he wasn't over it. He was too damn good at his job to let something as silly as common sense get in the way of the fact that he'd let down somebody he cared about. Even if he'd been brave enough to have that same conversation with Lilly herself (and, frankly, Kat believed he damn well should've done), and even if she had been the one to tell him that – for all his self-imposed doubts – when all was said and done, he'd saved her goddamn life, it wouldn't have been enough to change his mind. Some things were imprinted so deeply upon the psyche that no amount of reality could shift it… and, for Scotty, it was the conviction that he might as well have pointed the gun at Lil and pulled the trigger himself.

Scotty had issues. They all did. In their line of work, it was impossible not to have issues. The kicker lay in how you dealt with them. Kat would be the first to admit that she was no expert in that; she handled her issues in the same way she handled everything in life that she didn't like – by denying they ever existed, making a show of ignoring them, and waiting for them to go away and leave her the hell alone. Sometimes they did, and sometimes they didn't; either way, she made a pointed effort not to waste her thoughts on them. That was why she'd started smoking in the first place, in the days and weeks following her own shooting. Far more than the nicotine, she'd found herself addicted to the act itself; it had given her something to do with her hands, had kept them busy… and, for as long as they were kept busy, she could pretend they weren't shaking.

Of course, Scotty took the opposite approach. If something bothered him, he met it head-on, and punched the crap out of it until one or the other of them collapsed from exhaustion. Kat had always believed this was a better way of dealing with things than her own method, but lately she'd been forced to reconsider that perspective. Seeing his reaction to Lilly's plight, and to his later inspection from the IAD – accusing everybody that came within two miles of him, and then (after Jeffries had beaten that particular approach out of him) turning inwards to blame himself – she couldn't help thinking that maybe Scotty's head-on attitude was the more self-damaging of the two. Sure, if Kat persisted with her denial, there was a chance she'd end up dying of lung cancer, but at least she wouldn't go down hating herself, which was more than she could say for Scotty.

He was speaking again, she realised, forcing herself back to reality; that selfsame hatred of his was now directed squarely at the guy with the gun. "The hell you talkin' about?"

Unsurprisingly, the guy made no response other than a careless shrug and she could feel the rising heat from Scotty as his anger flared higher. For a moment, she had to worry that he would lunge at the jackass then and there and more than likely put an end to all three of their lives. As it was, he didn't, and the only sound from him for a few long moments was the deep controlled breathing of someone trying to stop himself from doing something stupid (and, more often than not, violent). "Look," he said, having regained his self-discipline, even as the guy made no outward sign that he was even listening. "I get it. You're doin' your job. We all got bills to pay, I respect that." He didn't, of course, but if there was one thing that Kat had learned from working with Stillman and his team, it was that murder cops were experts in the art of BS. "But you gotta throw me a bone here. You're, what, a hired gun… only your boss don't want you to shoot no-one? C'mon. Somethin' ain't right."

"Oh, _someone_ is gonna get shot," the bastard replied, clearly relishing the words as his eyes shifted momentarily from Scotty to Kat. In that instant, she felt her throat go dry.

She'd told herself that she was prepared for this, that she'd been steeling herself for the bullet from the moment she'd first seen the .45, and she'd genuinely believed that preparation would count for something when it finally came. But, again, she'd just been in denial. She knew how it felt to get shot. Knew how much it hurt. Knew how completely shattering it was to lay there wanting to scream, right from the soul, but in so much pain that even that primal sound wouldn't form. To watch, helpless, as the very essence of existence bled and trickled away, and know beyond all rationality that it was no longer in your hands whether you lived or died. She knew all that, and the memories of her experience came flooding back in Technicolor, and crippling terror overpowered everything else. If she, with all her experience and knowledge of what it was to take a bullet, had truly believed for even a moment that she could prepare herself for that, she must've been crazy.

The guy took two steps backwards. Scotty was shouting something but, for all her innate observational skills, Kat couldn't make out what it was. She couldn't hear anything at all, but the faint 'click' as he pulled back the hammer of the .45 came through the haze in her mind as clear as if it were the explosion itself. Through the dim buzz of Scotty's voice, and the creaking of the rotten floorboards, the silence was deafening. It was as if she'd suddenly been immersed in water, everything moving at half-speed except the guy's finger as it came down to rest upon the trigger, pausing for scarcely a heartbeat before pulling it tight.

With the explosion as the bullet flew from the gun, Kat could've sworn her heart stopped right there. But it didn't, and there was an almost infinitesimal fraction of her that knew it wasn't going to. Everything was moving so slowly, she could almost see the bullet's trajectory, coming at her like a bat out of Hell (if the bat was flying in freeze-frame), and there was nothing she could do but stand and watch, and… and yet she knew, without even knowing how she knew, that it wasn't going to hit her. And, while all she wanted to do was collapse with relief and make some inappropriate remark along the lines of 'what in the hell kind of merc can't hit a target?', her body was moving now as if with a mind of its own, and she couldn't do anything but watch from some fractured corner of her mind as her fingers, independent from any control she had over them, closed upon her own gun.

Her body had always reacted faster than her mind. From her dissociated distance, she was still waiting on the bullet to hit, still waiting for her heart to beat its last and her body to surrender to the inevitable void. But her body had leaped into action the moment it had realised the bastard was going to miss. And now she could hear every word Scotty was yelling, but it didn't matter because she knew she had it won. The guy had one shot; going up against two cops, he must've known he only had one shot. But he'd screwed it up, and that would cost him. Kat Miller wasn't the kind of girl who would let a guy take a second shot at her.

She remembered the reassuring sensation of cold steel against her fingers as they closed around her gun, but she didn't remember anything else. Didn't remember bringing it up, didn't remember pulling the trigger. But she must've done, because suddenly it was limp in her hands with smoke rising softly from the barrel, and the jackass merc was staring down at his own chest. The gun fell from his hand and he watched, eyes blank and void of emotion, as the blood seeped through his shirt in a damp dark mass. He was mumbling, delirious, and Kat was certain she could hear something about dry cleaning, but she didn't care. She hadn't even been hit, but she couldn't breathe, and it was all she could do to keep from falling backwards into Scotty's arms and letting herself pass out from the shock that now coursed through her like ice water in her veins. It was done.

"Good shooting," Scotty said, his voice hardly above a whisper.

Kat turned to face him, so slowly that she wondered if she was even moving at all. She could feel her eyes wide and dilated, and blinked a few times. "Thanks." It was a small, simple word, but it had the effect of shattering the numb horror that had descended upon her. It was done. It was over. She had no idea how she'd reacted so quickly, or even how the so-called professional hired gun had managed to miss a point-blank shot, but frankly she wasn't about to worry about that. It was done. It was all okay now. "Thanks," she said again, relishing the word like a man taking his first sip of water in a month. It was a deeply beautiful moment.

For the first time since this whole fiasco had started, their eyes met… and suddenly, all at the same time, she found herself wanting to laugh and cry and throw up and pass out and hug him and punch him and demand to know how in the hell he'd managed to piss someone off so bad that they'd send a merc after him just to try and kill his (admittedly cooler and far better-looking, she thought) partner instead of him. But she couldn't bring herself to do any of those things, now seeing scrawled across his face the fatigue and the pain and the heartache that almost made her wonder if she had been shot without realising it, so profound was the suffering in his eyes. And, right then at that moment, she knew exactly why _his_ stalker had wanted _her_ to take the shot.

That look… that haunted horror, that gut-wrenching agony that only now began to fade from his eyes… that cut far deeper than any bullet hole. Getting shot was easy, by comparison. You take a bullet and you die. Sure, it hurts like hell, but compared to what Scotty would've endured, it was quick. Of all the countless things Kat had been scared of when facing down that bullet, she hadn't worried about what would happen next. For Scotty, if she'd died then, it would be something he'd have to live with for the rest of his life.

Bad enough that he'd watched as Lilly had been shot less than a year ago. Bad enough that he still blamed himself for that. Bad enough that the experience had so crippled his mind he could only stand there and pray the same thing wouldn't happen to Kat too. And, if the bullet _had_ got her? For him to bear witness to that was inconceivable. To know that, for the second time in only a few months, he'd been there watching helplessly as someone he cared about was shot, their life now forfeit… and to know that, this time for sure, it _was_ his fault. His stalker. A bullet that should've been aimed at him, put through her just to make him suffer the worse fate of re-living it for the rest of his life. And suddenly, she was grateful for his sake instead of hers that the merc hadn't got her. She might've died then, but Scotty Valens would've been the one to truly suffer.

"It's okay," she said, "it's over… we're done. Jackass missed."

For three whole seconds, Scotty's face eased into a smile. It was the sort of smile that clearly said he would need therapy at some time in the near future, but – as far as Kat was concerned, given what had just happened – a smile was a smile, and it was a joy to see on his face. Except, of course, that it didn't last. Because it seemed that Fate was out to get both of them. As fast as it had formed, the smile ran away from Scotty's face, replaced by a renewed sense of dread that it sickened Kat to consider the cause of.

"No," he whispered, hoarsely. "Didn't miss. He got his target."

Kat blinked a couple of times; she was almost one hundred percent positive by now that she damn well hadn't been shot. What in the hell was he talking about? Her eyes rested on his for a moment, following them curiously as they focused on a point somewhere beyond her. Even more slowly than she'd turned towards him, she now turned back, allowing her own eyes to follow the lead set by his, fixing finally on the far wall and realising with a jolt that shook through to her very essence precisely what he was getting at.

Of course, the bullet had never been meant for her. It had lodged itself neatly in the wall, already weak and shaky from years of neglect, and now shaking all the harder from impact. Guy had known he only had one shot, and he'd made damn sure he wasn't gonna screw it up. Not enough to put a bullet in either of them, he was gonna bring the walls down. Hell, at least this merc didn't do things by halves.

The debris didn't fall particularly hard or fast, but it was enough. Scotty went down first, being still in the doorway; he stood transfixed, like a small animal in a set of headlights, as the arch collapsed on top of him. Kat watched, still reeling from the emotions of the gunfight, unable to bring herself to feel anything at all even knowing that she'd be next. Again, she couldn't breathe, but that was becoming so common a part of her existence now it almost felt like second nature. She barely felt the blow that downed her as countless chunks of concrete fell about her shoulders, and she hit the ground with the speed of someone who had given up hope.

Her vision blurred, and the remains of the room spun dizzyingly; she blinked, trying to focus, but all she could see were fragmented shards of wall and roof as they continued to fall. Another solid something struck her, hitting low on the head, and her eyes snapped shut. She fought unconsciousness, but it was a doomed struggle… and, as the inevitable black began to wrap itself around her, in that haze she could've sworn she heard the sound of approaching footsteps. Footsteps, and a dangerous low voice that, had she not been so desperate for any tiny shred of human contact in those last moments, she would've missed completely.

"Showtime, Scotty Valens."

* * *

**TBC**

_A/N: I realise I've so far been focusing pretty much exclusively on Scotty and Kat, and that probably will continue to be the ongoing theme for the fic as a whole… but I do plan on featuring Lilly and the others a bit more prominently as it progresses; I just needed to get the actual plot rolling first. I'd really expected to reach this point in the story by the end of the first chapter, but once I started writing for these two, they just set up home in my head and refused to let anyone else visit. But I promise the others will begin to get some limelight within the next chapter or two. Oh, and once again, thanks to everyone who's taken the time to review. :-D_


	4. Collection of Goods

_A/N: Once again, many countless thanks to everyone who took the time to offer feedback. As ever, it means a whole lot to this little newbie. :-)_

**4.  
Collection of Goods**

* * *

"You know you don't wanna do that." 

Nick Vera raised his head from the task that had been occupying his attention and frowned, his face the picture of boyish innocence. "Do what?" he asked, wide-eyed.

"That," Jeffries pointed out, not quite able to keep a smirk from touching his face as he gestured none too subtly at the dusting of sugar that coated Vera's lips. "Miller's gonna kick your ass if she finds out you ate her donut. And you _know_ she's gonna find out. She always finds out."

"Eh, she'll get over it," Vera replied, making no attempt to hide his satisfaction as he licked at the sugar. "Besides, what makes you so sure I won't kick her ass first?"

Jeffries burst out laughing at that, the sudden wounded look of indignation that now crossed Vera's face only serving to heighten the utter hilarity. He wanted, more than anything at that moment, to throw a cynical comment at the overweight donut thief, but the explosive force of his amusement (combined with the fact that Lilly Rush beat him to it), meant that he had to make do with the laughter.

Lilly snorted, biting back a laugh of her own. "You'd stand more chance of taking down a ten-tonne truck than you would of kicking Kat Miller's ass," she said, simply.

"That's not true," Vera said, with all the conviction of a petulant schoolboy. He glared at her for a few moments, and Jeffries half-expected one of his famous anti-female rants to be forthcoming. Thankfully – though slightly less so from Jeffries's own point of view – he chose the safer option, namely turning away and seeking out male solidarity in the face of a perceived feminist threat. "That's not true," he repeated, now looking to Jeffries for support. "Damn dames ganging up on me. Back me up here, homie."

Tempting as it was (and as it had been the last five billion times he had used the word) to point out that Vera simply couldn't pull off 'homie', Jeffries instead shook his head. "You're on your own with this one." He allowed the tiniest hint of sympathy to leak into his voice, before smothering it completely with wry bemusement. It was, blissfully, a sort-lived moment, cut off before Vera had the chance to leap on his male brethren for betraying him in favour of staying sweet with the fairer sex, by John Stillman.

"Got a minute, Will?"

It was easy, when the boss was involved, to know in an instant whether the following conversation would be of the light-hearted or serious kind. More than anyone else on the team, Lieutenant Stillman spoke volumes with his tone of voice, so much so that it seldom even mattered what he'd actually said. He could've been asking for a report on the weather forecast, and yet Jeffries would've known with just as much conviction as he did now that he was about to walk headfirst into a Serious Talk With The Big Boss.

He nodded wordlessly and, following Stillman's lead, made his way (in absolutely no hurry, of course) towards the Lieutenant's office… closely followed by the inevitable catcall from Vera. _Note to Self_, thought Jeffries. _Two donuts and Vera turns into a five-year-old on a sugar rush_.

The thought was pushed rather briskly from his mind as he gently closed the office door behind himself and faced Stillman with a look that he sincerely hoped would convey his concern without making him look like a frightened little newbie expecting a reprimand. Truth be told, he'd been waiting for this almost from the moment Stillman had made his way back into the office after the end of his forced sabbatical. Jeffries couldn't remember when he'd become the man's unofficial confidant, but it was a position he took as seriously as if John were his own flesh and blood. And he knew, maybe even more than Lilly did, just how much of a taste he'd had got for retirement during his exile from office, and how deeply that had affected him, whether he realised it or not, to know that maybe (just maybe) he was getting old and tired and needed a goddamn vacation.

It had, in a strange sort of way, forced Jeffries to think about his own increasing years too; neither of them were young men anymore, and they sure as hell weren't getting any younger. As far as he himself was concerned, though, the job was still a part of his soul; it was still so deeply ingrained upon the very essence of who he was that the mere concept of retirement felt as if someone were cutting off his supply of oxygen. Apparently, this wasn't the case for Stillman any longer and, as delighted as Jeffries was to see him back where he belonged, the part of him that considered the man a friend more than a boss couldn't help worrying that maybe he'd only come back because he felt obligated to, and not because he'd wanted to.

"Just wanted to thank you," John was saying, and Jeffries felt himself smile in spite of himself. The two men were practically equals – if not in rank, in every other conceivable sense of the word – and yet it still filled him with pride whenever the Lieutenant offered him the slightest scrap of praise. "For holding down the fort while I was out, and for not trying to pressure me into coming back." The corners of his mouth twitched slightly, not quite enough to be called a smile, but enough to suggest something vaguely resembling contentment beneath the steel of his eyes. "I know how much you hate keeping house… appreciate you not trying to drag me back to work as fast as possible just to get your ass out of this cupboard they call an office."

Jeffries shrugged, modestly. It had been almost more than he was capable of to keep from dragging Stillman back to work when the other man had confided his newfound keenness to retire, but he'd managed it. He'd seen the glint in John's eyes as he'd spoken of time off, of being exhausted by the politics of it all… and he'd seen, for a flickering moment, something that could almost have been outright bitterness. It was an emotion he'd never seen within John Stillman before and, now that he was back where he needed to be, he sincerely hoped it was an emotion he would never see there again. Some people weren't meant to be bitter; some people, however dark a situation got, and however much everyone around them despaired and floundered, were built to remain strong and steadfast through even the very worst. Stillman was the backbone of the team, in more ways than one, and Jeffries didn't doubt for a moment that his retirement would've been the end of them all. To the younger members of the team, he was a mentor, and to Lilly in particular, almost a father… and, to Will Jeffries, he was one of the truest friends he could've ever imagined. To continue what they did here, to continue giving the heart and soul they'd been giving for so long, without him there to guide them? It was inconceivable.

He stood there for some time in silence, just contemplating his response to the boss's gratitude. In the end, it occurred to him that sometimes the old clichés were the best, and he allowed himself to shrug a little. "Just doing my job, Boss," he said quietly. "Besides, we all knew you'd come back." That was a bald-faced lie and both men knew it, but it was the sort of lie that had to be told for both their sakes. Still, for a moment he felt guilty for having used it, and felt obliged to cover it with a layer of truth. "Place wouldn't be the same without you, John. We all know that, and you know it too. You could never quit on us."

"Guess not," Stillman said, but his smile was paper-thin.

One of the major benefits to working in Homicide was the fact that long and uncomfortable silences, like the one that had now descended upon the office in the aftermath to the quiet compassion the two men had shared (a taboo among manly men at the best of times, but far more so when both men were near-pensioners and supposedly tough cops), were quickly and easily diffused by some important business or another that would inevitably come to light in the instant before anyone's masculinity was put at risk.

In this particular case, Stillman decided – and Jeffries immediately concurred – that the team absolutely couldn't wait another moment before chasing up the investigation that Valens and Miller were supposed to be undertaking. Barely more than two words needed to be shared between the two men, and the concept was understood by both with an empathy often reserved exclusively for blood family. Almost as a unit, they left the office, leaving the comfortable moment and all its unprofessional compassion far behind (but no less appreciated, even if neither of them would dare admit it to each other; after all, men were still men) and returned to the hustle and bustle of Homicide… wherein any seriousness was immediately shattered beyond all possible repair as they were met by the painful sight of Vera and Rush fighting over the last of the donuts.

"Any news back from Scotty and Miller?" Stillman asked, making a point of ignoring the donut-related squabble, and simultaneously giving off a pervasive air that suggested nothing but business had been discussed between himself and Jeffries. Naturally, this did nothing to keep Vera from shooting Jeffries a look that said '_nice to see you're still alive, homie'_, before he too returned to Serious Mode.

"Not a word, Boss," he replied sharply, and Lilly took the opportunity presented by his distraction to swipe the donut from under his nose and hide it speedily under her desk.

"Tried calling them about fifteen minutes ago," she said, folding her hands neatly in her lap as if to say '_who, me?'_ as Vera shot her a glare that could've frozen a volcano. "No answer from either of 'em." And now she genuinely was back to her usual professional self, a cautious frown plucking at her forehead as she caught the perplexed look that crossed Stillman's face. "You think they're in trouble?"

Jeffries eyed the clock, painfully aware of the second hand as it ticked by. "Could be," he said, almost to himself. "Been two hours. They should've checked in at least."

"Nah," Vera said with his usual dismissiveness. "They're not stupid." He eyed the now-empty donut box and added, almost as an afterthought, "…uh… _Scotty's_ not stupid."

Lilly rolled her eyes, but held back a retort. She always seemed to be the one taking issue when Vera went into one of his anti-Miller tirades while the latter wasn't there. Most likely, Lilly saw a sort of kindred spirit in Kat, the only other female on the team, and felt obliged to look out for her when she wasn't around to look out for herself. Jeffries supposed he understood that protectiveness, a trait that was certainly missing from most of the males there, but he somehow doubted that Kat would've took offence to the comment even if she had been there to take it on the chin. Hell, he imagined she would've been more pissed if Vera had refrained from taking such an obvious shot… but still, there was something almost touching about the way Lilly bristled at the perceived threat and Jeffries imagined that, while Kat would've no doubt made a great show of saying she didn't need no goddamn over-protective blonde watching her back, she'd secretly love the thought of having someone care enough about her feminist honour that they saw in it something worth protecting in her absence.

Clearly putting a pointed effort into ignoring Vera now, she continued to focus on the problem at hand. "Does seem weird they wouldn't pick up when we called. You want we should head down there, Boss? Make sure they're just being lazy bums and drag 'em back here for a reprimand?"

Stillman nodded thoughtfully. It was, to all intents and purposes, the same look of perplexed curiosity that trailed across his features every time something went slightly against the expected plan of attack, but Jeffries knew better than to take it at face value. In their line of work, things went wrong all the time, that was nothing new. But the look on John's face now, that was. It was a look that said, clear as day to anyone who knew him well enough, that he was afraid. They were detectives, which meant they throve upon evidence and facts and numbers and statistics to prove beyond all shadow of rational doubt that something was wrong… but right then and there, Jeffries could see in John's eyes that he was already fearing the worst for his men, before he even had any vague evidence to work from. It was a snap judgement, a reflex reaction, and the kind of thing that Jeffries seldom ever saw in the hard-nosed Lieutenant. Worse still, beyond that fear – or perhaps directly causing it – right behind those cold eyes, was a fear so profound that it nearly stole Jeffries's breath. It wasn't fear for Scotty or for Kat, he knew, but for Stillman himself. He really had believed himself ready for retirement, and yet here he was. Back where he'd been for almost his entire working life… and he was tired. Too tired, maybe, to make the right call if something had gone wrong. Too tired to trust himself to be the man his team needed. Too old and tired and spent to provide the guidance that – if Scotty and Kat _had_ got into trouble – would become absolutely vital.

"Yeah," he said slowly, and Jeffries couldn't help admiring the strength with which he spoke. None but himself and possibly Lilly would see that flicker of doubt and fear behind his eyes, instead focusing on the soft confidence with which he spoke. That was the mark of a great leader, and it was something Jeffries could never have emulated even if he'd spent a hundred years as temporary Lieutenant. "Yeah," Stillman repeated. "Take a couple of SWATs too, just to play it safe. If it's nothing…" he shrugged. "If it's nothing, at least you won't be sitting around up here making the place look untidy." His eyes fell on Jeffries, and the fear melted into real faith in his team to do what was needed. "You too, Will. SWAT guys are gonna need a bodyguard."

It wasn't out of any genuine concern for Scotty or Kat that Jeffries found himself hurrying from the office block; he, apparently more than Rush or Stillman, believed them both to be able enough cops that any kind of trouble could no doubt be resolved without any humiliating intervention from the rest of them. Instead, as he strode purposefully onto the busy street with Lilly and the two SWAT boys, it was out of a genuine desire to be free from the office long before Vera made one of his wiseass remarks on the subject of the 'bodyguard' comment. The very last thing Jeffries's ego needed was a verbal bashing from one Nick Vera.

Fortunately, the derelict house was barely a handful of blocks away from the PD. Maybe that was why Rush and Stillman had been so quick to assume trouble; if they'd neglected to check in after two hours from the opposite side of the city, it would've been easy to assume really bad traffic. As it was, there wasn't much that could've stopped them reaching their destination with all due promptness, and from Jeffries's own (admittedly extensive) experience tossing houses for evidence, it seldom took more than a half-hour to realise there either was or wasn't something worth taking into account. And, when the something in question was supposedly a dead body, half an hour would've been more than a generous amount of time, too. So maybe John and Lilly were right to assume foul play; absently, Jeffries caught himself sighing, and Lilly eyed him curiously.

He didn't bother explaining himself, instead making his way cautiously into the house. For a moment, he caught Lilly opening her mouth as if to call out to their colleagues, and he shot her a warning frown. Not that she needed it, of course, quashing that instinctive reaction almost before the concept of it had fully formed in her mind, but still it was a risk he wasn't willing to take. If there was trouble to be dealt with, of the kind that would've taken out both Scotty Valens and Kat Miller – neither being particularly lightweight in the field of keeping themselves alive – the element of surprise would be about the only thing going for them. Risking it in the hopes of a quick and simple reply from the team who hadn't even bothered (or possibly been able to) answer their cellphones barely a half-hour previously, really wasn't smart thinking, and Jeffries was impressed that she'd realised it and catching herself. It was exactly this sort of self-discipline and realisation of when she was about to make a potentially fatal mistake, that made Lilly Rush one of the best in the business, and Jeffries admired her for that.

Both they and the SWAT guys had their guns out before they'd even stepped into the building, but they now held them close, fanning out slightly as they razed the squalor in search of friend or foe or anything that might lead them to either. It was, rather blessedly as it turned out, one of the SWATs who first made the decision to ascend the staircase in search of answers at the top of them. Lilly, having no intention of braving that particular death-trap unless circumstances meant she had to, frowned with concern.

"Might've fallen through," she suggested in a cautious whisper.

"Might've," he repeated, thoughtfully, but the tone of his voice made clear the fact that he rather doubted that was the case. It was pretty obvious that the place was hardly the calendar picture for Health & Safety, and an accident caused by the rickety nature of the house itself certainly wasn't off the table; but, realistically, what were the chances of a freak wall collapse taking out two half-smart cops?

"Got something," the SWAT guy called down, barely thirty seconds after his feet left the staircase. His voice wasn't the hushed concern with which the two detectives had spoken, and Jeffries knew the weapons guys well enough to accept that he believed them to be in no danger of whatever trouble may or may not have affected their colleagues. Nonetheless, the fact that whatever evidence the guy had pulled up was at the top of the stairs led to the further problem of, well, getting up the stairs in one piece. Which, frankly, was a prospect that made Jeffries wish he was still the highest-ranking, just so he could order Lilly to go up first.

Instead, he had to settle for throwing out a rather low blow, interjecting quickly before she had the chance to turn it on him, "You're smaller. It'll take your weight easier than mine."

"You've got experience," she shot back. "It'll respect you more."

"You're a lady," he retorted. "Ladies first… it's law, I'm afraid."

"You're a coward." It was, apparently, the only comeback she could come up with, before stepping daintily onto the staircase and making her way upwards. Jeffries wondered, briefly, as he waited for her to finish her ascent before following behind very carefully, whether Valens and Miller had been through the exact same debate when (and, indeed, if; there was no guarantee of that just yet) they'd had to deal with the Staircase of Certain Death; somehow, his money was on Scotty having lost that particular argument.

The moment of levity was painfully brief, shattered almost the moment Jeffries reached the top of the stairs and met the sight that Lilly was already absorbing, even as the SWAT guy moved off into the adjoining room to continue his search for any evidence that might lead him to Valens or Miller.

Of course, there was no sign of Scotty or Kat; not even any visible sign of a struggle, though the house was in such a terrible state that the lack of evidence didn't exactly discount the possibility. Chunks of debris, from what the scene suggested to be the ceiling and one of the walls, were scattered across the floor, small clouds of dust still settling restlessly over the scene. And, in the midst of the urban decay, lay what Jeffries initially assumed to be the dead body they'd been brought in to find in the first place. Male, perhaps six foot, bleached hair, covered by a fine coating of dust and plaster, lying unmoving in a pool of his own blood.

It took Jeffries only a moment to realise that his first impressions couldn't possibly be right. The man's blood was still wet, for a start… and, more telling still, while he was certainly not moving, there was nonetheless a telltale pulse of breath that rippled painfully through him at sporadic intervals.

"He's alive…" Lilly whispered, giving voice to that thought.

Jeffries nodded in quiet agreement, feeling his pulse skip as he knelt over the body. In fact, it was all he could do to keep from shaking the bastard, however poor his condition clearly was, and demand to know what he'd done with Scotty and Kat; the only thing stopping him from doing just that was the knowledge that, in his current state, their John Doe wouldn't be able to form a coherent word, let alone a full-blown explanation. In their line of work, things had to be done in a proper order, and right now Jeffries knew that their highest priority was getting the guy to a hospital before he keeled over and died right then and there.

He rose to his feet, turning to face Lilly. "Call an ambulance."

Once again, Lilly opened her mouth in protest, and this time she couldn't quite muster the discipline to prevent her concern spilling from her lips. "What about Scotty and Kat?"

It would've evolved into an argument, Jeffries knew, if the SWAT guy hadn't chosen that moment to return. Lilly was an excellent detective, one of the best he'd ever seen in all his years on the force, but she was still a passionate woman, and certainly wasn't immune to the vice of letting her emotions overpower her conviction to doing her job once in a while. Jeffries knew the importance of keeping the guy alive, especially if no other leads came back on their missing comrades, and knew that it was that which needed to be their priority at that moment. Sure, he was concerned – and all the more so now for having discovered a dead body who not only wasn't dead but was in fact freshly bleeding – but he knew what needed to be dealt with first. Maybe that was why Stillman had insisted on him joining Lilly here now, for that insight into what was important professionally as well as emotionally. It was an odd sort of faith to have, but Jeffries appreciated it nonetheless.

As the SWAT guy returned, Lilly practically dived on him in search of explanations. "Any sign of them?" she asked, and only someone with Jeffries's years of observational experience would've noticed the tremor in her voice as she spoke. Certainly, the SWAT boy didn't, as he shook his head.

"Found these," he said, in a voice that was steady as a rock; it contrasted bitterly with Lilly's emotional query as he held up the crushed remains of two cellphones. "That's all."

Lilly's fists clenched at her sides; Jeffries supposed this was the point where he told her they still had a job to do, and to keep her emotions separate from the task at hand until they had the mysterious John Doe in care. He wanted to tell her that, wanted to remain the stalwart and experienced detective that Stillman saw in him, wanted to prove the boss right in laying his faith in him. But the words wouldn't come and, instead, he felt his own fingers clenching into fists as well, the temptation to punch the wall rising almost beyond resistance. His throat tightened, and he fought to breathe deep enough for any kind of words to form.

"Call an ambulance," he repeated, finally. Lilly raised her eyes to his, and her passions – the anger, the worry, the stark terror, the panic – flowed through her eyes like light through a prism. "Do it!" Jeffries heard himself shout, and his voice was so cold he almost didn't recognise it as his. He softened, ever so slightly, feeling himself slump to his knees once again. He made a show of examining the unconscious body, but truth be told, it was simply more than he could do to remain on his feet. "Bastard's got some questions to answer," he clarified, bone-weary. "And he's sure as hell not gonna be able to do that if we let him bleed to death."

Lilly punched the number into her cellphone, visibly furious. "If he_ doesn't_ answer them," she growled dangerously, "I'll make _sure_ he bleeds to death."

* * *

**TBC**

_A/N: Many apologies if this one was a little slow or 'meh'; I have no idea how in the hell Jeffries ended up as my muse while Scotty and Kat sleep off their concussions. He's one of the characters I have a really hard time trying to pin down (as is Lilly, which hopefully explains my inability to characterize her properly, and my deliberately trying to stay out of her head; there are so many fics that put focus on her, and that get her so perfect, I don't think I'd stand a chance writing her half as well as you guys do). So, yeah, it wasn't the easiest chapter to write. One hell of a fun challenge, though. ;-) _

_At any rate, we'll be back with the Valens & Miller Angst-A-Thon in the next chapter, so stay tuned._


	5. Reunion

_A/N: Once again, innumerable thanks for all the feedback; you guys rock my socks. Should probably also make note that this chapter marks the point where things are going to start getting pretty dark. I don't imagine needing to up the rating, at least not yet, but nonetheless thought best to mention it in case any current readers are squeamish._

**5.  
Reunion**

* * *

Coming back to consciousness after a blow to the head never happened like it did in the movies. In the movies, the hero would come around, groan heroically for a couple of seconds, and suddenly find himself miraculously back in near-perfect health. As he reeled against the neon white lights that flashed and danced across his field of vision, Scotty found himself fervently wishing that Bruce Willis and those other so-called action heroes would try and play it method for once, and whack themselves upside the head with a two-by-four just to see how it really felt. Because it sure as hell was nothing like the movies. 

His first reaction was to sit up, and he actually tried to do just that for almost a full minute before he realised that he already was. It took almost another full minute for him to realise that he was cuffed to what felt like a water pipe or a towel rail; he didn't trust himself to turn around and check the facts, but he was fairly certain they'd used his own goddamn handcuffs on him, out of spite.

It took rather longer than that for his vision to clear, if not completely, at least to the point that he could absorb his surroundings without wanting to gouge his own eyes out in the vain hope of easing the vertigo. The room looked like an abandoned bar, or maybe a nightclub that had been left to rot after a drugs bust. Either way, it was pretty far from any place Scotty would've liked to find himself. On the plus side, he supposed, at least this place seemed sturdy enough that a bullet through the wall wouldn't be enough to bring half the building down on top of him… and, even through the haze of confusion and uncertainty, he had to stop and take a moment to applaud himself for coming out of the concussion with his memory intact.

Slowly – not out of any desire to pay particular attention to detail, but out of a genuine fear that he'd lose his lunch if he tried to move at any kind of speed – he twisted his head to survey the room in search of Kat. Thankfully, both for his precarious stomach and for the anxiety that was bubbling through him now as the blurring in his vision continued ever so slowly to recede, it only took the most cursory of glances to catch sight of her. She was still unconscious, sprawled awkwardly against the far wall in such a way that seemed to suggest she'd made every effort to make the place look as untidy as possible. It calmed Scotty a little to see her; unharmed, save the same unconsciousness that had plagued him, also handcuffed but – unlike himself – not bound to any solid object. He watched her, allowing her presence and general appearance of health sustain him as he continued to fight against the vertigo and the confused dizziness that still swam within his mind.

"Pretty as a picture… ain't she, Valens?"

Scotty flinched at the invasive voice, whipping his head around as best his current position allowed, even as his brain reacted to the movement by exploding with a pain so profound he almost passed out again. He groaned and slumped back against the wall, waiting with absolutely no patience for the room to stop spinning long enough for him to catch a glimpse of whoever had addressed him; he'd been so concerned by making sure Kat was all right, and so busy struggling against the effects of his concussion, the thought to look for anyone else in there with them had never even occurred to him. "Who in the hell are you?" he demanded, the words – barely audible – sounding weak and tired even to his own ringing ears.

"What? Don'tcha recognise me?" There was an ironic sadness in the voice now, and Scotty made another feint at turning towards the sound, willing his vision to stop blurring long enough for him to pinpoint exactly who he was dealing with. "Aw, Valens, I'm _crushed_."

Gradually, his eyes readjusted, and he welcomed the chance to then put a face to the voice. It was a face he didn't immediately recognise, but one that nonetheless came with the unsettling certainty that he _should_ have recognised at least something in it. Maybe that was the concussion, combined with the guy's tongue-in-cheek assertion that he somehow knew Scotty on a personal level… but there was something in the face that caused a near-familiarity to tickle at the edge of Scotty's memory.

On the surface of it, there was nothing that immediately stood out as unusual, or anything in any aspect of the man that struck Scotty as particularly recognisable, but he simply couldn't shake that familiarity. It was almost as if the man looked like somebody he knew, but he simply couldn't figure out who. There was a deep-set ruggedness in the man's stance; he was seated comfortably at a near-totalled barstool, leaning on the bar and watching Scotty with the laziness of someone who had all the time in the world. His hair was shaved almost completely off, but what small revenant remained was copper-coloured. Most noticeable – and, to Scotty, most familiar – of all, every last facet of his figure and face held an unspoken air of '_you will respect me, or you will face the consequences'_. Even through the lazy smile on his face, and the relaxed posture as he rested his elbows on the bar and stretched backwards, and the almost mischievous glint in his greenish eyes… through all that, there was an underlying darkness, hints of a brutal temper that, for reasons he couldn't quite understand (not being prone to that emotion even at a time like this) filled Scotty with a depth of fear.

"Who in the hell _are_ you?" he repeated, and the change in his intonation of the question was painfully telling. Gone was the concussion-induced weariness and cynicism of his previous asking; in its place was a curiosity that he was unable to hide (even if he'd wanted to) and a level of bewilderment that, while the concussion was no doubt adding to, it certainly wasn't the sole cause of.

"I'm the guy you never even bothered thinking about," was the reply. Scotty sighed; clearly, this guy was all about talking in riddles, and the last thing his concussed brain was in the mood to deal with it was a lunatic who spoke in tongues. "I'm the guy whose life you wreck when you go out on your stupid ego-fuelled vendettas." Scotty opened his mouth to argue this, but the guy cut him off by waving something that looked suspiciously like his own gun. "You're gonna shut up and listen. Now, you took something real important from me, by spreadin' your worthless lies and interfering in stuff that weren't even about you. And now it's payback time. And you're gonna sit and think about what you've done, 'till you're sorry."

Scotty sighed. His head hurt, and he frankly wasn't in the mood to sit around for innumerable hours chained to a water pipe just because some psychotic wanted him to feel bad. "I lock up your girlfriend or something? No offence, pal, but I'm guessin' she deserved it."

The guy sat up, ramrod straight. His fist clenched around Scotty's gun, and he was clearly making every effort to keep from shooting him. For once, Scotty wasn't concerned; if the psycho had wanted him dead, he would've been dead long before now. And, while there was nothing Scotty Valens hated more than being helpless at the hands of some jackass who wouldn't explain himself without making it into some obnoxious super-drama, it was reassuring in a twisted sort of way to know that he wouldn't need to watch his mouth. The bastard wanted him to suffer? Fine. Let him bring it on. But, if he knew him half as well as he pretended to, he'd have to know that Scotty Valens didn't take anything without one hell of a fight.

"Don'tcha ever get tired of watching people suffer 'cause of you?" the guy asked, and the question held a note of almost genuineness. "Ever get tired of ruining people's lives just 'cause you're Scotty goddamn Valens and you gotta make a big show of doing your thing?"

Scotty rested his head against the wall with a melodramatic sigh. "This girlfriend of yours, the one I locked up? I'm guessin' she never let you get any."

It was a weak shot, and one he was rather glad Kat wasn't awake to hear, but it was all he had. Familiar as the guy seemed to be, Scotty genuinely had no idea where the hell he'd seen him before, and pushing at the only possible angle he could think of was the best way he knew to wheedle the guy into confessing exactly what his freakish issue really was. Or it might wheedle a bullet into his chest and end the whole sordid fiasco before anything unpleasant happened. Either way, it would be more interesting than sitting here and feeling his arms go numb while waiting for his insane host to make a confession.

"You're way off base," the guy said. "This ain't some sordid teenage love story, Valens, it's real life." Scotty had to bite his lip to keep from pointing out that, from where he was sitting, it felt about as far remove from real life as was humanly possible. Still, as he opened his mouth to continue, the guy's expression softened almost imperceptibly. It wasn't the look of someone whose resolve was wavering, but of someone who felt so deeply for his cause that he couldn't help warming a little at the mere thought of it. If the bastard hadn't knocked him out and cuffed him to a goddamn pipe, Scotty would've almost felt his own heart soften as well. As it was, he merely scowled (which, in turn, caused his head to start pulsing with pain once again) as the guy continued. "Was my daddy you got locked up. Went runnin' around, rallying people to testify when it weren't none of their business, or yours." And his eyes hardened with rage again, even as Scotty felt the blood in his veins freezing as he realised what he was facing. "You couldn't just leave us alone, could you?"

"Coach Fitzpatrick," Scotty murmured, in less than a whisper, and he felt his own eyes darken with a fury so deep he feared it would consume him alive. If he hadn't been chained to a pipe, he would've leapt to his feet (to hell with the goddamn concussion) and ripped the guy's throat out right then and there for even making him think of the name again. "You tellin' me he's your daddy? He's the guy you're so mad I locked up? 'Cause, hell, you're right. Prison's too good for that sick son of a bitch."

He should've known. He should've realised the instant he'd first seen the guy, exactly who he'd reminded him of. The rugged features, the lazy posture, the demand for respect oozing out of every pore. The guy was practically a dead ringer for his scumbag old man… and, for a moment, Scotty could've sworn he saw the coach standing there in his son's place, laughing with that eerie cackle that had always scared Scotty, even before any of _that_ had happened. It was just the briefest of moments, though, and his eyes refocused a second later on the man's offspring, seemingly every last bit as twisted as his father.

"You better watch what you say," growled the younger Fitzpatrick. "You ain't calling the shots here, Valens. You ain't the one rallying fake witnesses this time." Once again, Scotty found himself grateful for the restrains, or he would've done himself some serious damage in a bid to get at the bastard's throat. "It's judgement day. Anywhere you go, you leave behind a trail of people who ain't done nothin' to nobody, and they're the ones that suffer. An' you never look back, do ya? All these people get hurt 'cause of you, and I bet you don't spare 'em a single damn thought." The hatred on his face went deeper than anything Scotty had ever seen before, except perhaps the hatred in his own soul at the sight of this misguided psychopath defending the one guy he would've put a bullet through and never look back. "It's over, Scotty Valens. You can't keep doin' what you do and never payin' for it. Someone's gotta bring Karma down for all the people you've watched suffer. Might as well be me; I ain't got nothin' left to lose." His eyes shone brightly. "You gotta repent."

Fear wasn't an emotion that came easily to Scotty Valens; that was one of the reasons he was kicking himself now for not recognising the guy straight off. In all his life, nobody but Coach Fitzpatrick had managed to bring out that emotion with just a single glance. It was understandable, of course, given what Scotty knew he was capable of – what he knew the son of a bitch had done to his brother – but it was an emotion, even way back then, he'd hated. And maybe that was why he hated it so much more, now. That panic, the quickening pulse, the dry throat, the sick twisting of the stomach… all those reactions, he'd forever associate with that man and everything he stood for. And so, as Mike had sworn to pretend it had never happened, Scotty had sworn never to let himself feel that way again. For the sake of his brother. Because it was his job to protect him, to be there for him, to be strong even if Mike was at his weakest. And, every time he did allow that fleeting emotion to wash over him, even for a moment – even, say, for that one shattering instant when he'd seen Lilly Rush lying there with blood seeping through her shirt and knew he'd screwed up – every time he felt that fear, it brought him right back where he'd sworn he would never go again. Right back where he was here and now.

"I ain't gotta do nothin'," he retorted, voice low and thick with the sheer force of will that it took not to let tears form in his eyes. He wasn't scared. Fear was an emotion he'd beaten out of himself. Even if he had let that moment of weakness overtake him at the sight of Lil getting shot, he was over it. He was strong. He was the guy who protected the people who deserved protecting. He wasn't scared, and there was nothing this twisted bastard could do that would make him go back there. _Nothing_.

Thankfully (and with a sense of timing that, had Scotty been the type to believe in such things, he would've assumed to be Fate giving him a break), before either of them could do or say anything to further the challenge and therein put themselves in danger of getting seriously hurt, Kat marked her return to consciousness with a low moan. It was a small, almost inaudible sound, but it was enough to effectively drag Scotty's attention away from the unpleasant situation he'd found himself in, and force it back onto something that could be dealt with. His eyes moved, fast enough to once again nearly overpower him with vertigo, from Fitzpatrick to Kat, and he watched with a mounting anxiety as she let out a second whimper.

"Miller," he said, hoping the sound of his voice would – for the time being at least – aid her in the painful process of regaining consciousness. "Kat, hey. You're okay. Just took a knock to the head. You're okay. Don't move too fast. You're okay." The more he said it, the more he could almost convince himself that repeating the words over and over again would somehow make them true.

"Mm," Kat replied, and even that intangible sound was thick with pain. "Mm." She turned her head to the side, and he saw her eyelids flickering wildly. "Nick?"

Despite himself, despite Fitzpatrick, and despite the whole sordid situation, Scotty couldn't help chuckling at that. "Nah. He's lazing about back home. He probably ate your donut, too." Though he knew she wouldn't be able to see it, he smiled. "It's me. Scotty. You're okay."

"Scotty?" she repeated, and her features relaxed ever so slightly as recollection of the events at the house flooded across them almost visibly. "Oh… yeah…"

"You're okay," he said for what already felt like the thousandth time, and with a sense of confidence that faded with every time he said it. "Just got a concussion. Having a house dropped on you will do that." He exhaled sharply as she shifted, clearly making the effort to sit up, and he strained against his cuffs. "Don't. Stay down. Just wait a couple seconds. Ain't gonna do no-one any good if you make yourself—" he, naturally, got cut off at this point by the unmistakeable sound of retching as her body reacted to the forced movement; a low, frustrated sigh escaped his lips as he futilely finished his sentence, "—sick."

-

* * *

-

Kat Miller had always believed that she knew what humiliation was, and that she knew it better than most. She'd discovered exactly how much deeper than embarrassment a person could get the day she'd crept into her boss's office and tried to explain that she'd gotten herself into a fix and would need to take some time off to have a kid, while he'd just stared at her for fifteen minutes before demanding to know how stupid a woman had to be to let that happen in the 90s. But here she was now, semiconscious and puking her guts out in front of the guy who (along with the rest of the Homicide team) she'd tried so damn hard to convince that she was tough as nails, and suddenly she discovered a whole new plateau of humiliation.

"Real sophisticated woman you got there, Valens."

She didn't recognise the voice, but the mere sound of it caused an audible explosion of rage on Scotty's part. "Shut the hell up, scumbag," he growled, with a hatred in his voice that Kat had never heard before. Oh, she'd heard him get mad, and seen him lose his cool when he felt the guy deserved it (and, nine times out of ten, the guy did), but she'd never heard the ice in his voice that was there now, and it continued to freeze her even as he returned his attention to her. "Christ, Miller. You six years old?"

Much as she wanted to throw back a cutting response to that comment, her stomach forbade it, and instead she had no choice but to wait with all due patience until it had finished its effort to make her revisit what felt like every meal she'd ever eaten. When she was done, she rolled herself as slowly as she possibly could onto her back, breathless, and waited for the nausea to pass. "If you tell _anyone_ about this…" she whispered, as soon as she felt brave enough to open her mouth again, "…I'll break your nose."

A heavy sigh left Scotty's lips, but he made no other reply. Kat resisted the temptation to ask him if he was all right, the sudden silence not like him at all, and instead focused on keeping her body under control until such a point as the ceiling stopped swaying like a ship in a storm.

Slowly but surely, as the concussion's more visually impairing side-effects wore off, she brought herself into a sitting position, and took a shot at examining her surroundings. There was a battered sort of familiarity to the place, and a frown crossed her face as she absorbed it. "I think I busted this place once," she murmured, letting the awareness comfort her mind while she regained her balance.

"Oh yeah?" There was a sinister smugness in the unknown stranger's voice, and it was an emotion that caused her to turn (painfully slowly) to now study him. He was leering at her, in that same way that she found a lot of male suspects did; it seemed to be some kind of reflex reaction to a female cop. Power was very much a male thing, and a lot of guys were long accustomed to rendering the fairer sex helpless with a single unsettling glare. Never once had Kat Miller allowed that sort of macho BS to work on her, and this time was no exception as she met his lechery by rolling her eyes so profoundly that it almost made her throw up again. The guy laughed at her discomfort, clearly seeing himself the victor irregardless. "Fancy that," he went on, in a voice that implied there was far more to what he was saying than he was actually saying. "Me bringin' you to someplace you worked. What're the odds?" His cold eyes gleamed, and now she really was unsettled.

Kat blinked at that, turning cautiously to Scotty. "The hell is this guy talking about?" she asked and, had her hands not been cuffed behind her back, she would've spread them wide to emphasise her confusion. "He some jonesing junkie or something, looking for a quick fix?" She allowed a short humourless laugh to escape. "He does know we're cops, right? He ain't gonna get anything from us."

"He's not a junkie," Scotty replied, and the words were so quiet and so filled with defeat that Kat found herself short of breath with the sudden depth of concern for him.

"You all right?" she asked, keeping her voice low.

"Ain't him you should be worryin' about." And there was that other guy again, watching her with those intense eyes that tried so hard to break down her defences and that – she told herself – would never have managed it, if they hadn't been coupled with Scotty suddenly acting so broken and unlike himself. What in the hell had happened while she'd been unconscious? Still, despite her misgivings and the growing sensation in her gut that was telling her to run like hell while she still had legs to run with, she faced the guy squarely with nothing but determination blazing in her own eyes, even as he continued speaking in a voice that got somehow more sinister the quieter he spoke. "Don'tcha worry 'bout him; he's Scotty Valens. Always lands on his feet, Valens does… an' always at the expense of others. Now, me, I'm done bein' the guy who pays this guy's overdue library fees outta my own pocket. So it's kinda your own health you gotta start worrying about, not his."

He stood up now, and Kat realised with an irrational sense of relief that he wasn't particularly tall. Tall guys always looked more intimidating, especially to a short-ass like her, and it was comforting to know that, if she ever was able to stand up again, she wouldn't be that much shorter than he was. She saw, almost as if it were a close-up shot in a movie, that he was holding a gun. So much for her assumption that he – whoever 'he' was – had hired a merc due to his own inadequacy at handling firearms; but, even so, she couldn't find it within herself to revisit the terror (yeah, terror – there, she'd admitted it) that she'd felt back in the house. No. If he'd wanted her dead, she'd be dead by now. The gun, more than likely, was just for show. She could tell by the way he looked at her, his eyes raking over her body as if it was a particularly unimpressive piece of meat, that he didn't see in her anything that could possibly challenge him. She was a woman. A cop, sure, but a woman… and she could tell that he was type who didn't believe women were capable of facing him without fear.

"I dunno," she said, drawing the words out to hammer home her point, as she felt every muscle in her body tighten in defiance of him. "You don't look so scary to me."

"Yeah?" he asked, and his expression shifted. There was a sense of anticipation, almost glee, in his eyes then. As if she was reacting exactly how he'd hoped she would, and that unnerved her far more than his air of 'women fall at my feet in terror, for I am Alpha Male'. Still, she held strong, refusing to back down even as his eyes pierced through hers and seemed to violate through to her soul. "Might wanna take a harder look, then," he went on. He raised both his arms, almost messianic in his pose, and spread them to encompass the room in its entirety. "You take a long hard look around, and you tell me what you see."

Surprising herself, she actually did. It wasn't so much his words, as it was the way he said them, combined with the odd familiarity she'd felt when first examining the room. It took her a moment to place the sensation, but when she did, her heart almost stopped right there. The cracked ceiling tiles, the fake-mahogany bar. The barstools, lined up so neatly, but she would've bet her entire life savings that the one nearest the back entrance was just a little bit more wobbly than the others. It was totally different from the last time she'd seen it, aged and wasted through abandonment and neglect, but now that she saw those small similarities, she knew exactly where she was. And, worse yet, with a sickening sense of the inevitable – a sense that was verified by the joy that spread across his face as he saw all this painting itself across hers – she knew exactly why he'd brought them here. And he was right; it wasn't Scotty she'd need to worry about. Not here.

"You see?" the guy was saying, and he was right up in her face now, leaning in so close she could taste his breath even though her mouth was closed. "It's all about placement. Couldn't just bring you anyplace and hope for the best. Gotta be someplace that means something to you."

"What's he talking about, Miller?" demanded Scotty, and his voice was loud and squeaky with a fear that she now understood too well. "Where in the hell are we?"

In her mind's eye, she saw the look that had been on his face back at the house, when he'd thought she'd been shot. It was the look that had told her why his stalker had wanted her to be the one taking the bullet, and the same look as she knew was once again plastered across his features right now. And she knew then that she was doomed, that whatever issue the guy had with Scotty, she'd be the one to pay the price for it, just because of the pain it would put him through to see someone else suffer a hurt that should've been his. It would be even worse, she knew, suffering that hurt here, of all places. But of course, their captor must've known that; and, by the sadistic pleasure now coursing through his eyes, she could see that he wasn't going to rest until Scotty knew it too. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes. She couldn't watch him, couldn't see that torment pulsing through him like a distress beacon, and then say what she had to say.

"We're in Fishtown," she explained, hearing her voice crack and hating herself for it. "Did a lot of undercover work round here during my Narc days. Worked a lot of bars, clubs… this place included." She forced her eyes to open, fixing them not on Scotty but on their captor. It was difficult to breathe all of a sudden, and she had to stop her expostulation to drag some desperately-needed air into her lungs. Thankfully, it was all Scotty needed to piece together the nuances of what she was saying, that particular story having apparently circulated the Homicide office before she'd even joined up. It was something she found herself infinitely grateful for, for the first time in her career; knowing that she wouldn't have to explain the goddamn situation gave her a final reserve of inner strength that she knew she was going to need.

"This is where you got shot." It wasn't a question, but she nodded anyway, the gesture going unnoticed as Scotty had already rounded on the guy who'd brought them here. "You goddamn son of a bitch, you brought us here on purpose." She could hear the rage in his voice, struggling to make its presence known, but it couldn't quite fight its way past the crippling horror that flowed so clearly through his every word. "This ain't about her. It's about you an' me. You got a problem with me, not her. I'm the guy who screwed up your life, remember, I'm the guy you wanna hurt. She didn't do nothin'. It ain't her fight."

The guy shook his head in disgust, as if he'd explained the concept a thousand times and Scotty was deliberately refusing to understand it. "It is now," he said.

His eyes met hers then and, for a fleeting moment, she could've sworn she saw pity deep within them. It was gone almost before she could be certain it had ever been there, but it was true and genuine and _human_ and – even if she had only imagined it – it was enough to break her that last little bit, leaving her exposed. She never saw him move, never saw him level the gun at her, never saw him pull back the hammer, never even saw him pulling the trigger. She never saw anything, but she knew it was happening, and she heard the explosion as the shot was fired, the sound so loud that it alone was almost enough to end her. She never saw the bullet either, but she knew (and she didn't know how she knew, only that the knowledge flooded her very soul as deeply as the love for her daughter) that, this time, it wasn't going to miss.

* * *

**TBC**


	6. Link

_A/N: As ever, many thanks to everyone who offered feedback. Sorry this one took a bit longer than usual; it sort of got away from me, and ended up in a completely different place to the place I'd intended to take it… but that's the nature of fic-writing, I guess. Anyhow, enjoy. :)_

**6.  
Link**

* * *

The pain hit, and everything dissolved. 

As the room faded out of focus, memories of the last time flooded in to fill the void that replaced it. If she'd thought it would make the slightest difference, Kat would've shut her eyes and never opened them again, but the experience cut far deeper than just what she could see, and seeped right through the dull haze that now permeated her field of vision. It was a vast greyscale revisiting of what had been, at the time, her worst nightmare come true… and yet, for every moment the pain pulsed through her (he'd gone for the leg, of course, just to sustain that perfect mirror to last time), she truly believed that she would wake up. If it felt like a nightmare, so agonisingly similar to the last time, which had also felt just like a nightmare… maybe it _was_ a nightmare. That was the logical assumption to make, wasn't it? Any minute now, she'd wake.

It was an effort to breathe, more so with every gasp, but it was an effort she was grateful for having to make; the concentration it took simply to draw enough air into her lungs to keep from blacking out gave her a point to focus on, and kept her from shattering entirely. She knew how the game worked: one breath at a time, one heartbeat at a time, one struggle at a time. She'd keep herself breathing, keep herself from blacking out, keep herself alive, and then she could worry about waking up.

She could sense rather than see the numb horror crawling across Scotty's face. Her vision was still a blur of mostly grey (and she was thankful for that; the thought of dealing with the pain and seeing the too-familiar walls, once again smeared with her blood, would've undone her), but she knew exactly how he would look. Terrified, furious, disgusted. Guilty, more than anything else, and it seemed that was exactly what their captor had wanted out of him. She could've told him, he didn't need to pull out the stops if he wanted Scotty Valens to feel that particular emotion; all he'd need to do was say Lilly's name.

Guilt was a friend to Scotty, she knew, and it was nothing new to him by now. He'd probably never stop blaming himself for what had happened to Lilly and, if he had stood a chance of making peace with that, it was gone now. And, much as Kat understood what he was going through, and hated herself as much as their captor for forcing him to go through the agony of seeing her like this, at the same time she couldn't control the anger that rose in her now, that he couldn't control himself enough to throw her a lifeline when she needed it. Just a word or two. A sentence. Anything to let her know he was there.

She felt her head fall backwards, and had to fight that little bit harder to remain conscious. "S… Scotty," she heard her own voice say, with a combined sense of frustration and the innate desperation to hear a friendly human voice. "Gonna… gonna need you to f… focus."

"Yeah?" he retorted, his voice coming from a great distance away. There was a depth of pain and anger in that one simple word, and from it alone she knew she'd get no help. She could only imagine the nightmares he was enduring at this moment, so soon after the event that still tore him apart inside; she felt for him, truly and deeply, and could absolutely understand his need to fixate on his own trauma at that moment. But (and he'd have to forgive her for being a little selfish, here, but she _was_ the one with a bullet in her leg), right then, she rather felt that her needs exceeded his, if only for the immediate.

"Yeah," she said. "Kinda… need you to keep talking." Her words were scarcely audible, softer even than whispers, perhaps better described as scant breaths. It was all the power she could find at that point, but hopefully the lack of it would be enough to push Scotty into action. He'd have time enough to dwell upon his own horrors when she didn't need him to help her stay out of shock.

"Yeah?" he repeated, and she had to remind herself that standing up and yelling '_that isn't helping!'_ really wasn't a viable option for her. "Yeah? Anything in particular you want me to say? How 'bout '_hey, that's a real nice bullet hole you got there'_, that do it for ya? Or '_gee, Miller, sorry I let you get shot, but I'm Scotty Valens and letting people I care about get shot is all I'm good for_'?"

Kat felt her eyes slide closed, and she surrendered to that. "We're…_cops_… Scotty," she growled, the rough edge in her voice borne more of the pain than of any genuine irritation with him. "It… _happens_. We get shot… all the time… and we deal with it." Her lungs burned with the strength it took to keep speaking to him, but the act of having something to say was empowering in itself, and helped her stay on the right side of consciousness for that little bit longer. "You don't… start dealing with it… we're both screwed," she went on, and let her body slump those last few inches back to the cold floor. She wouldn't pass out, dammit; she'd just lay here for a couple of minutes, with her eyes closed. Keeping her eyes closed didn't mean she was going to let herself pass out. People closed their eyes all the time and didn't pass out. She was fine.

"Yeah?" Scotty muttered, and Kat had to wonder whether that was the only word left in his vocabulary. "Like we ain't both screwed anyway? You tellin' me it makes any kinda difference, me bein' Joe Positive? Like that's gonna take that bullet outta you? Like it's gonna turn back time and stop Lil ever getting shot either?" His voice trembled with a dizzying mixture of rage and defeat, and she let herself fade out a little bit more, just to take the edge off it. "Ain't no dealing with crap like this, Kat. You've been here before. Right here. Right goddamn _here_. You tellin' me you can just deal with that, like magic?"

"Mm." Her throat hummed in affirmation, though her mind wasn't entirely sure what it was agreeing with. A small part of her knew that it was something important, a point she should be arguing for his sake and for hers, but she couldn't bring herself to care about it anymore. Oh, she wanted to; her mind was insisting she pay rapt attention to what he was saying, and beat the words out of him. But she was losing the will for all that. The ice-cold floor was _so_ comfortable, and her thoughts were trying so very hard to blur into a peaceful serenity filled with nothingness, and she couldn't even remember why she was fighting the oblivion at all. It was so quiet, and so calm… even the pain was lessening. She exhaled, slowly, and allowed herself to fall a little bit deeper. Of course, she still wasn't passing out. She was just giving her body a moment to relax, to recover from the pain, to absorb all the chaotic messages it was receiving. No… she was just resting.

Scotty was talking again, a buzz in the background. Telling her that all her 'deal with it' BS wasn't worth squat, and that she was stupid if she expected him to believe it just because she told him to. She wanted to tell him to keep it down, but something inside her insisted that she was the one who'd told him to keep talking in the first place… and besides, her mouth wasn't working anymore. She drifted further, let the drone of his complaints fade ever outwards, until she could almost pretend it wasn't there. And then she could sleep. No, not sleep. Rest. 'Cause sleep was the thing she wasn't allowed to do… right?

She hadn't expected that he'd actually come through for her. She'd never pretend to know him as well as Lilly or the others, but she knew him well enough to know that – once he got himself running on a tangent – there was nothing in Pennsylvania that could drag him out of it. She hadn't expected that he'd see her falling and cease his tirade for long enough to pull her back from the brink. Of course, she hadn't expected that she herself would be weak enough to need pulling back, so maybe she was just misinterpreting everything. Maybe she could blame that on the bullet; her thoughts weren't exactly clear, but she was pretty sure 'misinterpreting things' wasn't something that happened to her very often. Either way, as she drifted closer to the edge, the last thing on her mind was the thought that he'd be there through all his pain to catch her.

"DAMMIT, MILLER!" The explosion, so much louder than anything he'd said before this point (even if it did lack the passion and power behind his previous words), jolted her back from the edge of unconsciousness, and she forced herself to sit back up, room swimming blearily back into focus before her eyes. And, of course, Scotty wasn't done. "You don't try and stay the hell awake, I'll end you myself." She let her eyes rest on him now, the myriad emotions flickering across his features almost tangible in their rawness. "I ain't even kidding. You strut around acting like the tough chick on campus, like you own the place, and you can't even keep your goddamn eyes open for five minutes. The hell kind of badass can't even stay awake?" The rage was rising in him again, depthless and dangerous, and she could see it centre on her. She could handle it; as long as he wasn't fixing the blame on himself, she could take everything he threw at her, and more.

It was better, in a weird sort of way, if he was throwing the blame at her. As well as giving her something solid to focus on, beyond the pain, it kept the focus of Scotty's anger and hatred away from himself. She didn't doubt for a second that it would take him a long time to get over this (just as he still hadn't gotten over what had happened to Lilly) but, for as long as he was looking outside himself for the cause of it, he stood a chance of keeping it together for just as long as it mattered. He'd keep her conscious, stop her giving in to the pain that felt like it was spreading through her entire lower body, and she'd keep him from wishing that bullet had gone through him instead. It was a perfect – albeit deeply twisted – match.

She smiled, slow and lazy, and dancing at the very edge of delirium. "Atta boy, Valens…" she said, keeping her voice steady. "You do your job, I'll do mine."

Her eyes drifted momentarily to their captor, who was back on his barstool and watching them both with a joyous curiosity. It was probably in his best interest, she supposed, to let them react to this new development (because 'new development' sounded so much nicer than 'crippling injury') on their own, though she had no doubt he'd have plenty more to say at a later time. For now, his silence was something of a blessing; the last thing either of them needed was him pre-empting a return Scotty's self-loathing right now, and he clearly believed he had all the time in the world to squeeze that out of him. Still, there was no denying that the unrestrained glee on the bastard's face caused a rush of humiliation to course through her. Bad enough she'd let herself get shot twice in the same place, but to be so completely helpless even before the bullet had gone through her? At least the last time it had happened, the shooter hadn't stuck around long enough to gloat about it, and that was a difference that allowed her to divide the two situations rather neatly within her mind. Good for her sanity, not so great for her reputation, or her inherent hatred of people gloating at her like that.

"Put your eyes back in your head, jackass," she muttered at the guy, shifting somewhat to try and get comfortable. "You never seen a bullet hole before?"

He chuckled darkly at that. "I'll be seein' another one if you don't learn to watch that mouth of yours." He turned, then, to face Scotty again, even as his words remained directed at Kat. "Gotta get it through your skull, girlie, this ain't got nothin' to do with you. Could've been any one o' those saps Valens works with, I got a place picked out for all of 'em." His grin widened, almost lecherous. "Hell, if it were up to me, it'd be the blonde one. Your worthless ass ain't worth half as much to him as hers."

At that, Scotty struggled against his restrains, howling like a wounded animal (which was rather ironic, Kat couldn't help thinking, given the circumstances). Any damage control she'd managed to achieve by unintentionally forcing him to step up to the plate and keep her conscious was pretty effectively destroyed then and there. It was amazing, how deeply even the mention of Lilly's name could affect him, and she couldn't figure out whether to admire or pity him for it. Instead of dwelling too heavily on it, she instead opted to call his name, twice, and then louder for a third time when he remained unresponsive.

"Scotty," she said, when she was positive he'd calmed himself enough to at least feign paying attention. "You gotta put that out of your mind. Lil isn't here. It's just me." She exhaled at an unexpected pulse of pain. "Lil's fine. She's waiting for us with donuts – at least she better be waiting with donuts, 'cause if Vera ate 'em all, I swear I'll put a goddamn bullet in _his_ goddamn leg and see how he damn well likes it – and you _know_ she'd be kickin' your ass if she thought you were still pouting over that."

For a moment, it seemed like he hadn't heard a single word she'd said; he continued to strain against the cuffs that held him in place, and spit obscenities in the face of the guy who still taunted him. Slowly but surely, either through his own bone-deep exhaustion, or through the gradual impact of Kat's speech (which, she had to admit, had left her rather fatigued herself, but she had blood loss to blame that on), he began to settle, the wildness in his eyes diminishing ever so slightly and his body slowly easing out of the frenzy it had worked itself into. His head fell back against the wall, and he sighed deeply. It wasn't quite the outcry of '_yeah, you're right…'_ she had been hoping for, but – for the time being – it was enough.

"Didn't I warn you to watch your mouth?"

Kat shrugged; she had absolutely no intention of letting this guy see her weakness. She had already puked and almost passed out in front of him; anything else would be more humiliation than she could take. "Already taken one shot. Another won't make no difference."

"Okay," he said, sounding positively cheerful. That lightened tone of his voice, far more than the sinister darkness he'd adopted previously, chilled her. "I get it. You got a rep to maintain, right? Bullet in one leg, gotta be bad enough. Puttin' one in the other is just overkill, right?" He smirked. "And it won't do me no good if you die before Valens really suffers. So maybe I don't shoot you again just yet. Maybe you do something for me instead." And now his eyes fixed right on hers, that steely gaze once again burning right through to her very essence, even as that maniacal grin spread wider. "Stand up."

-

* * *

-

Scotty was beginning to hate Kat for staying so calm through all this. It was almost worse than seeing the numb terror in Lilly's eyes as she'd slumped to the floor. At least Lil had shown some emotion, some reaction to the fact that she was bleeding half to death. For all the difference it made to Kat's attitude, Fitzpatrick might as well have given her an ice-cream cone. And, while Scotty would be the first to stand up and applaud her refusal to let him get to her, there was just something unnerving about her composure; either she really was as tough as she pretended to be (and, much as he respected her, he somehow doubted that was the case), or she was due for a hardcore bout of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder when this was finished.

Of course, he was in no position to judge the state of anyone else's mental health (except perhaps Fitzpatrick's), but it helped keep his mind from shutting down completely to think of it in purely psychological terms. He was still reeling from Fitzpatrick's impromptu mention of Lilly, and his tone of voice had suggested he knew exactly why that had made Scotty react the way he did. If the guy had been stalking him, there was no denying he'd done an excellent job of it, and – while Scotty was fairly sure he should've been furious at the invasion of his own privacy – all he had to concentrate on was the outrage and disgust that he'd out and admitted his desire to have exacted his sick vengeance by once again putting Lilly through all this.

Maybe that was another bi-product of Kat's almost eerie calmness, and he knew that it wasn't fair to be focusing his mind so purely on Lilly when she was here now and bleeding for his so-called sins, but that was how he felt. He supposed he should've been thankful that Kat wasn't the type to dwell on sympathy and support from others; short of needing him to shout her back from the edge of unconsciousness, she'd made a point of keeping her focus on his emotional turmoil, distancing herself from her own, and – while Scotty was pretty positive that was a sure-fire way to end in mental breakdown – he was grateful for it. And, Christ, it was clear as daylight that he had enough emotional issues right now to feed a psychotherapist for ten years.

She sat there now, eyeballing Fitzpatrick with a hardened look that practically dared him to shoot her again. Scotty felt himself come down ever so slightly from his rage over the man's dig at Lilly, and sighed heavily. That was the thing about Kat Miller; she was one of the most intuitive people he'd ever met, but when it came to her own personal safety, she could never seem to see what was right in front of her face. She had a bullet in her leg, and was being held at gunpoint by a guy who clearly would've been happy to put one through the other, and yet she was looking at him as if she was the one holding all the aces. In the interrogation room, that was masterful. He'd seen her bring down the most hardened souls with her stubborn refusal to back down, but this was nothing like that and – while he could totally understand if the pain was clouding her judgement a bit – somehow he got the feeling that she was just too damn stubborn to admit she was in serious trouble.

"Kat," he heard himself say, the use of her first name bringing him down another inch from his flight of rage, and gave him focus on the task at hand. She was right. Lilly wasn't here; she was safe back at the office, with donuts, and he needed to remember that he wasn't dealing with her. He hadn't let her down this time. "Kat, you gotta stop screwing around, here. He's callin' the shots. You ain't."

"Yeah," she growled, intently. "We'll see about that."

"The hell are you trying to do?" he demanded, and his voice went up a few octaves. He could feel himself edging his way back into that unfettered rage, and tried to calm down. "You wanna get shot again? That it?" He could see the wounded look on her face, the sense of betrayal at him calling her out, but underneath all that an air of definite relief that he was – in the main, at least – putting his focus where it needed to be. If this was some twisted plan on her part to bring him crashing back down to reality and stop brooding about Lilly who wasn't here, he'd kick her ass for it. "You got a kid, Miller. You forget that too? Bad enough she's gonna have to see you like this for the second goddamn time. It ain't right to put her through anythin' worse just because you're so desperate to be the tough chick who always comes out on top. We ain't gonna win this."

Reacting to the words, she shivered slightly, turning her resolved glare onto him now; the trace of anxiety that still danced inside her eyes told him she was painfully aware of the fact that Fitzpatrick still had the gun trained on her, and was still waiting for her to obey him, but – like everything else the came her way – she wasn't about to focus on that. "You got your way of coping," she said, and the softness in her voice wasn't quite determination, but it wasn't quite defeat either, "…and I got mine. Respect that."

Inevitably, but rather unwelcome just the same, Fitzpatrick was just as quick to react. "No talkin' from you, Valens," he said. "You're here in a strictly observational capacity." Scotty opened his mouth to ask where in the hell a low-life like Fitzpatrick had learned words like 'observational capacity', but he refrained from doing so, seeing once again the no-nonsense glint in the other man's eye, and knowing how foolish he would look rising up to the bait he'd just ten seconds earlier told Kat to ignore. Besides, if he did as he was told and she didn't, maybe he could start to genuinely believe it when he told her it was her own fault. And, if he believed it, maybe that would make it true. And, if it was true – if it really was her fault for not playing nice, if she'd asked for trouble and got it – then maybe, just maybe, it'd mean that the blame wasn't all on his shoulders after all.

Satisfied that Scotty would be a good little boy from now on, Fitzpatrick turned back to Kat. "Your call, girlie. You can stand up, or I can take back my offer to not shoot you."

Kat exhaled, the unmistakeable sound of someone who was so unimpressed they were crossing the line into 'bored half to death' territory. "Whatever you say, tough guy."

Disbelief flooded through Scotty Valens as he watched her straighten up and ready herself with a resolution that was almost inhuman. The light in her eyes, formerly touched with anxiety and pain, now hardened into a sense of 'do or die'; it was the same light he'd seen in his brother's eyes when they'd approached the courtroom that fateful day. In that moment, Mike's eyes had shone with a genuineness that almost suggested the fear and the doubt and the long-buried trauma had never happened. Like he was stepping into that courtroom for jury duty or to observe a hearing or something just as mundane. Scotty would never admit it, least of all to his brother, but right then in that moment, he'd been the one drawing strength from Mike's courage.

It was the same effect with Kat now, as she braced herself against the wall. He couldn't see her hands, cuffed as they were behind her back, but he was sure they were clenched so tightly a single breath could break them. And then, slowly at first but with a speed that increased with the resolve on her face, she began to stand, and suddenly it was as if he was staring at a mirrored reversal of Lilly.

Lilly had been falling, sliding down the wall as if it were a mere annoyance in the face of gravity; Kat was rising, the wall instead strengthening and supporting her defiance of the same gravity. Lilly had been pale, whiter even than her usual pallor, and Scotty had only been able to watch helplessly as the last revenants of colour had faded from her face; Kat was flushed, her natural mocha skin darkening all the more with exertion, the pain only serving to heighten her fervour. Lilly had been careening towards the end, death seeming to be a mere heartbeat away; Kat seemed to defy the concept of death as she rose, practically glowing with life. Even down to the nature of their injuries, Lilly's being so high and Kat's so low; even as the thoughts plummeted through his mind, before Scotty's eyes, for a single moment Kat wasn't there and Lilly was, the flushed mocha replaced by fading pallor, the fervent determination replaced by helpless defeat. It was a tragic image.

Scarcely an instant later, the slumping spectre of Lilly was gone, and Kat stood upright. Or, more accurately, as close to upright as a person could get while leaning against the wall and trying to keep as much weight as possible off her still-bleeding leg. Scotty studied her, the look of accomplishment on her face almost like that of a man who'd climbed Everest, and swore to himself not to let that same defeated helplessness touch her face as he'd let them touch Lil's. It wasn't over yet; he'd been wrong to say they couldn't win, and Kat was proof of that. She'd been shot and – scant minutes later – was standing almost upright. Fitzpatrick could do everything in his power to break Scotty Valens, to make him whimper and apologise for all the mean things he'd ever done. But he wouldn't. Scotty Valens was bigger than that, and he knew that – while there was still air in his lungs, and air in Kat's – he wouldn't give in to the self-loathing and bitterness that hid within his soul and even now threatened to consume him. He could see the strength in Kat's face as she stood, eyes fixed on a distant point he couldn't see, and he would make it his responsibility to do everything within his limited power to keep that strength alive. Maybe it _was_ his fault they were here. Maybe it _was_ because of him that Kat was hurting and bleeding and forced to find that inner strength. But, having found it, it was a beautiful thing, and Scotty goddamn Valens wasn't about to roll over and play dead while he could still play a part in keeping that strength alive. He could hate himself later, when he was alone and Fitzpatrick wasn't there waiting for it. Kat would defy him by staying strong, and Scotty would defy him – in his own way – by not surrendering to his own tortured demons. He could be strong too, dammit.

Kat was smiling at him, the expression laced ever so slightly with the tightness of pain, but overall just seeking out that resolution. He returned the smile, as brave as he could muster it, and – even as he felt Fitzpatrick's eyes on him, blazing with rage – he kept it there. "Lookin' good, Miller."

She laughed; the sound was warm, a far cry from any sound either of them had made since their capture, and it was a joy to hear. "You bet your ass I'm lookin' good, Valens."

* * *

**TBC**

_A/N: Didn't really get to dig as deeply into either character's psyche as I'd wanted to for this chapter, so I'm not sure yet whether I'll be going back to Lilly & Co next chapter or sticking with the Valens & Miller Introspection for a bit longer to try and really get into their heads. Opinions?_


	7. Precious Declaration

_A/N: As usual, so many thanks for the feedback. In particular – to Cat2, many thanks for the chapter advice; I was so caught up in the flow, I'd completely forgotten how important it is to keep a balance between the two scenes, so thanks a lot for the much-needed reminder of that. Also, to oucellogal, thanks SO much for your compliment about my insight into Kat; she's the character I always end up being most inspired by, so it's wonderfully reassuring to know I'm not butchering her – and, as an aside (since I'm one of those people who never gets around to reviewing other people's stuff) I'm still totally hooked on "Every Time Two Fools Collide". :-D_

**7.  
Precious Declaration**

* * *

Lilly Rush wasn't a squeamish person. She didn't flinch at the sight of blood, and didn't back away from a case if it promised to get unpleasant. She couldn't deny that (once in a while) maybe her emotions got the better of her, but that was a product of being human. She took great pride in her capacity to remember that side of herself, especially in a career that tried so hard to break the humanity apart in favour of being meticulous and emotionless. It was a gift, she'd always told herself, and even now – with so much emotional baggage somehow resting on her shoulders – she believed that. A great cop wasn't just a cop. A great cop was a human being, able to think and feel like a victim or a suspect or a witness. That was what made a great cop, and that was exactly what Lilly had always embraced. But emotional reactions weren't the same as physical ones, and she had never been the type to shy away from a situation because it turned her stomach or made her uneasy. 

It was part of her job, being able to handle any possible situation that came up – however gruesome or unexpected or terrifying – and she'd always believed her track record in that aspect of her life to be almost flawless. But, right now, it was all she could do to keep herself calm. It was frustrating, and in more ways than one; here she was, not staring down a mutilated body or a twisted psychopath, but sitting and waiting patiently in a hospital waiting room. If someone had told her a year ago that the simple act of sitting here in a room that brought so much concern and anxiety for other people, would one day have that same devastating effect on her, she would've laughed and told them they obviously had no idea who they were dealing with.

But here she was. Sitting quietly, staring at the walls, just waiting for the John Doe she and Jeffries had uncovered to regain consciousness and enough sensibility to answer their goddamn questions, and yet there was nothing she could do to keep the irrational panic from rising. She wanted to believe that the discomfort that surged through her now was just an understandable response to the knowledge that the fates of her colleagues were potentially in the hands of this unknown whoever, but the simple fact was that she knew better. Lilly Rush knew herself, inside and out, to an extent that few people ever really connected with themselves. She knew her strengths and embraced them, knew her weaknesses and accepted them. Well, most of the time. But with that insight came the responsibility to be honest with herself, and that was what she had to do.

All of a sudden, she had become one of those people who found themselves unnerved and – though she would never admit it to anyone – even freaked out by hospitals. Between the death of her mother and her own harrowing time spent bed-ridden in one of these places, Lilly was frankly reaching a mindset that would've been ecstatic if she'd never had to step inside another hospital ever again. It was understandable given what she'd been through over the past few months, but – as far as she was concerned and despite her acceptance of those flaws within herself – it was wholly unacceptable. She'd gotten over her initial anxieties over the interview room, hadn't she? She'd put to the back of her mind those fears of having nobody to turn to when things got rough, hadn't she? She'd done everything a healthy cop was supposed to do, yet here she was shaking like a leaf because she'd been in this damn hospital for three hours and wanted nothing more than to run the hell away.

"Hey, Lil." As if sensing the uneasy direction her inner thoughts were taking, Nick Vera appeared at her side with a flourish and a smile. "Got you some vending-machine coffee."

She smiled gratefully, wrapping her hands around the steaming plastic cup as if the warmth from the black liquid would somehow find itself into her frozen heart. "Hot water and a bit of grit doesn't count as 'coffee'," she replied with a humourless chuckle, but took a sip from the cup anyway.

"Best they had," Vera shrugged, and settled himself comfortably into the seat beside her. "It was either this or the hot chocolate, and I don't wanna know what they put in _that_."

Lilly shook her head at the comment, but refrained from replying in kind. Instead, she let the feint at dry humour wash over her, and promptly buried herself in the cup of not-coffee. The aroma, if not the taste, was close enough to real coffee that it calmed her nerves somewhat, and she let her eyes drift closed as she revelled in it. Just for a moment, she could blot out the heavy disinfectant smell that screamed 'hospital!' at her every sense, and could pretend she was back at the office, complaining about the insubstantial state of coffee there instead. The delusion couldn't last, of course, but while it was there, she would use its existence to soothe that anxiety that still tickled the edges of her mind. It was just a hospital. Just a building filled with sick people. That was all it was. She wasn't here because she was bleeding to death, and she wasn't here because her mother was lifeless in the morgue. She was Detective Lilly Rush, and she was here because she had a job to do.

The moment was even more short-lived than she'd expected, shattered scarcely before she had a chance to grasp the confidence by a frown and a cough from Vera. Ever the tactless wonder, he once again showed his prowess at failing to understand anyone's desire for silence and solitude. He shifted in his seat and turned to face her. "You really think this guy is just gonna roll over and tell us what we wanna know?" he asked, and Lilly was about to tell him to keep his curiosity to himself until they were in a position to do something about it but – before she had the chance to open her mouth – she caught the flicker of disconcertion in his eyes, a dark reflection of her own worries, and her annoyance diminished ever so slightly at the sight of it.

"He'd better," she said plainly, and hoped that would be enough.

"Yeah," he agreed with a nod. There was a peculiar softness touching his voice, though, and suddenly Lilly found herself the one who wanted to persevere with the conversation.

"You okay, Nick?" she asked, letting a tiny frown crease the edges of her forehead in reaction to his uncharacteristic quietude. "Not starting to get squeamish around hospitals, are ya?"

The question was an ironic one, and it was an implication she would never have made in front of anyone else. She had absolute faith in Nick Vera to be self-absorbed and uninterested enough to miss even the possibility that Lilly's suggestion might be self-referencing, and it was cathartic in an odd way to have mention of the condition out in the open air, doubly so knowing that her target would remain oblivious to its significance. And, naturally, Vera didn't disappoint her in that respect, only shaking his head with a grunt.

"What, then?" she pressed.

He looked at her, long and hard, clearly unable to decide whether to speak up or hold his tongue. Eventually, with an obvious level of regret, he sighed. "It's silly," he confessed, hanging his head like a little boy. "Valens and Miller are god-knows-where, and John Doe in there is our only lead to finding 'em. And I'm sitting here, trying to figure out the smart way to lean on this guy until he cracks… but all I can think about is how I ate Miller's donut and how – if this guy doesn't talk – she's never gonna be able to kick my ass over it."

Lilly stared at him for a moment, not quite sure of the best reaction to the impromptu revelation. "Well, who'd've thought it…" she murmured, eventually. "Nick Vera's got a heart."

He let out a derisive snort. "Yeah, yeah. Don't go tellin' everyone."

She didn't need to. He'd said it, and there was no taking it back. The chauvinist pig of Philly Homicide had let slip the fact that – every once in a while – he stopped and thought of someone else. Lilly should've expected it, really. Other than Toni and her son, Miller was the only person she'd ever seen Vera soften in front of. They fought all the time, as if it was the only thing either of them knew how to do, but it was clear to anyone within a hundred miles that the affection shared between them went deeper than that. If there was anyone that could make Nick Vera falter before an interrogation, it was Kat Miller… and, for Lilly, seeing that depth of concern (so unnatural in a man like Vera) gleam now in his eyes, it was a breath of fresh air. If he was allowed to embrace his weaker side every now and then, maybe it wasn't so shameful that she had her demons too.

Even without her having voiced so much as the faintest trace of concern, Vera picked up on the empathy behind her eyes as she watched him, and his entire posture relaxed. "Not just me being a great big worrier," he murmured, studying her carefully, "is it, Lil?" He mustered a sympathetic smile, but on his face it came across as demented; still, it was the thought that counted and Lilly returned it in kind.

"Guess not," she admitted. It wasn't – strictly speaking – the truth, but it was far better for him to construe her anxieties as being directed at their missing colleagues, than seeing the real reason behind it. Like all of her inner turmoil, she would eventually accept this hospital thing as just another hurdle she'd need to leap on the track to recovery (which she'd achieve by herself, on her own terms, thanks), but she had no intention of sharing it – or, indeed, any of her demons – with Nick Vera or anyone else. No, it was _much_ better that he look at her and see the sorrow of a cop missing her partner and team-mate; what possible good would it do either of them to bring her own self-involved qualms to the forefront now, when they didn't matter?

Besides, she _was_ concerned about Scotty and Kat; especially Scotty, and not just because he was her partner. He'd saved her life, and then been put under investigation for it. Hell, worse than that, he'd almost been forced to take a month's punishment leave because of it. And she knew – he hadn't said a word, but she knew – that he blamed himself for what had happened to her in the first place. If he'd got there a minute earlier, if he'd pulled the trigger a second earlier, if he'd taken her phone-call a heartbeat earlier… Lilly knew it was futile to dwell upon these things (though it hadn't stopped her dwelling on them herself throughout the sleepless nights that had followed), but she hadn't ever confronted him about it. Like her, he wasn't the kind to talk about his feelings, and she respected that just as he respected the same in her. Maybe that was why they worked so well together; they both understood the importance of not talking. But right then, knowing that he could be anywhere and going through anything, she wanted nothing more than to have him there so she could take him by the shoulders and yell at him for hours and hours until he got it through his head that it wasn't his fault.

She exhaled heavily, leaning back in the flimsy chair until her head rested against the wall. Almost unconscious of the words even as they left her lips, she said, "…I hate hospitals."

It was odd, hearing the sentiment spoken aloud, especially having just accused Vera of the same. In true Lilly Rush style, of course, she'd kept the words even and indifferent, speaking them in the same matter-of-fact tone as she would say 'I hate musicals' or 'I hate people who hate cats'. Still, the sentence was so unexpected – by both of them – that even Vera took the hint and started paying attention.

"You do?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. There was no accusation in his tone, merely the undisguised curiosity of a guy who knew just how often she found herself gracing these disinfected hospital hallways as part of her job, and who couldn't understand why she'd chosen this moment to tell him that she didn't like them. The idea of connecting her sudden avoidance of hospitals with her recent painful experiences in one seemed lost on him… but he was – after all – Nick Vera, the man who'd had 'King of the Oblivious' printed across his forehead in neon pink for almost as long as she'd known him. And maybe that was why she'd found herself expressing the thought now, to him, knowing that – unlike Scotty or the others – he wouldn't find reason to dig that little bit further into the comment and see the real reason behind it. With him, more than anyone else on the team, Lilly could bare her very soul and – as long as she did it in a careless and offhand manner – he wouldn't even blink.

"Yeah," she said, with a standoffish sort of shrug. "Hate 'em."

He blinked at her a couple of times, but let the subject drop. Lilly couldn't help thinking (with no small amount of irony) that, if the counsellor she'd been forced to see had been as self-involved and blind-sighted as Nick Vera, it was highly probable that she would've found herself opening up a whole lot more. There was something comforting in letting the small slivers of your true self shine through with the knowledge that the guy you were exposing yourself to wouldn't follow up the revelation with awkward questions or the insistence that she delve even deeper into her broken psyche and dredge up every painful memory hidden inside it.

Thankfully – for both of them – she never had the chance to dwell on that concept any more, as one of the hospital's no doubt numerous overworked nurses took that moment to approach them. Evidently new at the job, or else one of the few medical types who'd as yet never had to deal with cops before, she stood there for a few minutes, staring bashfully at them and twisting the hem of her uniform with the unease of someone who clearly wasn't sure whether she'd be arrested for using the wrong word in their presence.

Vera eyed the woman, and his expression wavered slightly into one of – if not actual sympathy – an odd sort of familiarity. Perhaps he saw a little of Toni in the nurse, and felt the need to put her mind at ease, or maybe the loss of Kat and Scotty had left him feeling uncharacteristically sentimental. Either way, to Lilly's surprise, he was the one who took the opportunity to set the woman's panicked mind at east.

"You got some news for us?" he asked, curtly. He didn't bother explaining the situation, or giving out the patient's room number – both pieces of information Lilly was sure the woman already had if she could only find her tongue and the words to express them. "If so, spill it. We don't bite."

The nurse took a shaky breath; apparently unaccustomed to Vera's particular brand of sympathetic humour, she seemed only to grow all the more agitated as he spoke, turning from his (admittedly rather intimidating) presence to instead face Lilly. _Yeah, yeah…_ she thought,_ always look to the blonde chick for reassurance. _Aloud, she didn't say anything, instead waving a dismissive hand. "Ignore him. What've you got?"

"Your… uh…" The woman gestured chaotically with her hands, clearly wanting to say 'friend', but knowing that the word didn't apply, and not knowing how to deal with visitors – especially ones who happened to be cops – that didn't actually have any sort of relationship with the patient. "Your… the…" She grimaced visibly, and wrung her hands; for Vera's sake, Lilly hoped that Toni was a better nurse than this one. "He's regained consciousness. And…" with one brief glance back at Vera, who was tapping his foot with impatience, her nerve almost failed her again, and Lilly prompted her to continue with a curious 'hm?'. "You… apparently… we… we were supposed to let you know as soon as he was conscious. So… that's what I'm doing. Here. Kinda."

Lilly had to bite back the temptation to say '_that wasn't so hard, was it?'_, and instead opted to offer a curt nod and a quiet but sincere murmur of thanks. As a unit, she and Vera climbed to their feet, gesturing for the poor woman to lead them to the guy's room. If she was being honest, she half-expected the woman to pull some BS about newly-conscious patients not being allowed visitors, but clearly she knew enough about how cops in hospitals worked to overlook that particular regulation (or perhaps she was just so desperate to get away from them that she would've done anything to achieve that end), and took the lead without another word.

It wasn't until she entered the room that Lilly realised just how deeply this hospital thing had affected her. The sight of their John Doe, pale and bandaged and looking almost as if he'd still been under the knife when he'd regained consciousness, brought back the faded memories of her own time here. For a single moment, she was the one in that bed, and he was watching over her and demanding to know if there was anyone he could call. The lights, bright and blinding, flashed above her head and she winced against them. Pain, familiar and warm, coursed through her chest, and dark wet patches of red trickled over her mind's eye. Even as she knew it was all in her head, even as her rational thoughts screamed at her to pull herself back to reality, all she could hear was his voice (miraculous in itself, since she had no idea what it sounded like) asking who he should call for her.

She must have allowed some of this emotion to spill over, because the next thing she knew, she was being shaken back to reality by a sharp cough from Vera. "Lil? You doin' okay?"

_Great,_ she thought. _Now__ he learns the subtle art of empathy._ Aloud, she simply said, "Doing just fine," and offered him a tight smile by way of reassurance, before turning her attention towards the man in the bed. Her illusive mental image having been suitably shattered, she'd expected him to appear weak and mortal when her eyes rested on him with the acquaintance of hindsight. But he didn't. If anything, that illusion still fresh in her mind even if Vera had effectually pulled her free from it, the man now seemed to carry in his eyes a crystal-clear understanding of exactly what had been soaring through her mind, and a pity that was so deep-set it was almost as if he really had been the witness to her helpless solitude. That look was almost enough to shatter her then and there, but she found it within herself to take that pain and twist it, shaping it into an unshakeable resolve to make damn sure this bastard yielded every last shred of information he had at his disposal before they were done.

"Detectives Rush and Vera."

The words came not from Lilly or Nick, but from the man himself, a pained smile touching his lips as he watched their reactions. Vera, for his part, couldn't contain his surprise and concern at being so immediately recognised, but Lilly covered her reaction quickly and effectively, taking a staunch step towards the bed and flashing her badge. Not that it was necessary, given his apparent knowledge of who she was, but there was a great amount of comfort to be found in going through the motions of a familiar routine, and she used that to her advantage, even as she cut to the chase in the very next breath, pointedly refraining from making any comment on his observation. "You're going to tell us who you are, and you're going to tell us where in the hell you're hiding our colleagues… and you're damn well going to do both those things within the next thirty seconds, or so help me you're gonna wish we'd left you in that house to die. Are we clear?"

"Crystal," he replied easily, his tone making it plain that he wasn't even remotely intimidated by her words or the fury that she allowed to creep across her face. Nonetheless, for all his bravado, he seemed willing enough to co-operate, and shrugged before lapsing into what passed for an explanation. "Who _I_ am doesn't matter. You can call me John Doe or you can call me Jack Black for all I care," he said, in such a voice that said _'If you want me to play nice and tell you where your little friends are, you won't dare push that subject with me'_, and – while it infuriated Lilly all the more to allow him that moment of thinking he could call the shots here, she let that particular detail slide for the time being. After all, it wasn't as if they needed him to volunteer his personal information, anyway; the convenient hospital locale would make it all the more simple to dig up his dental records or fingerprints and ID the bastard at their own leisure.

Vera growled, and Lilly was fairly certain that – had the nervous nurse stuck around for more than a nanosecond after showing them to the room – that sound alone would've given her a heart attack right then and there. "Don't get smart with us, jackass…"

The guy sighed, a gesture that he seemed to instantly regret as a pained wince contorted his features less than a second later; despite herself and her resolve, Lilly felt her own chest burning in sympathy. "Fine," he said, casting aside all pretence of being in control, and Lilly noted that his voice had dropped in volume quite a little. It didn't surprise her; that level of pain, even arising from something as simple as a sigh, must've been a frustrating reminder of his own mortality… an emotion that she herself knew all too well, and she had to fight to remind herself that he was the criminal and not the victim. "Look," he went on. "I'll level with you. I don't got a clue where your buddies are. Guy hired me to take 'em out of commission, said he'd take over when they were out for the count. Had some kind of grudge against Scotty Valens." As the explanation wore on, the quality of his voice continued to deteriorate with pain and fatigue, until he ended by closing his eyes. "My line of business, you don't ask questions. You get the job. You get told who or what to put a hole in. You do what you're told."

"This guy," Lilly asked slowly. "He got a name?"

Vera took a step forwards, expression thoughtful. "I'd sure as hell make sure I got a contact for the guy who's just offered me hard cash to waste a pair of cops."

John Doe sat up in bed, the effort of the motion clearly causing him great distress, but Lilly once again beat down her empathic instincts and refrained from telling him to lie back down and relax. He was the criminal, not the victim. He didn't deserve her pity or her empathy, and she had no intention of giving it to him, no matter how desperately his situation strove to remind her of her own. Eventually, catching his breath and recovering from the exertion, the guy spoke again. "Didn't want me to waste 'em."

"Oh yeah?" Lilly asked, with a genuine curiosity.

"Yeah," he said, and there was a strained intensity in his voice, almost outrage that she'd think to question what he was telling her. "Guy had a grudge, I told you. Didn't wanna see Valens dead, that weren't good enough for him. He wanted to see the guy _suffer_. Made that point over and over; if Valens dies, I don't get paid." His face eased into a tired grin. "That kinda thing, a guy don't forget."

"Course not," Vera interjected. "Soon as money's involved, you cockroaches remember everything." He eyed the merc with the expression of someone who had just stepped in something nasty. "Looks like you ain't getting paid now, homie, so maybe you remember a bit more and we cut you a deal."

Lilly took an unconscious step back as the two men eyeballed each other, and tried to keep from examining the room in too much detail. Normally, it was something she'd do without even thinking about it – observe the colour of the carpet, the fabric used in the curtains, the amount of light that was allowed into the room, and a thousand other tiny details – but this time, she was making a stoic effort to remain detached. It was difficult enough being here, talking with a victim – a _criminal_, she reminded herself again – who was suffering an injury so similar to hers, whose breath came as laboured and tainted as hers had, whose every motion was stiff with agony… to take in the details of a room so similar to the one she'd stayed in, especially with those unwanted anxieties over hospitals still fresh in her mind? It would be too much for her to take. So instead, she focused on Vera, familiar in a different way, and the welcome sight of him leaning on the guy with that natural expertise that came so easily to him and left her confident without a shade of doubt that their John Doe would crack wide open.

And, sure enough, scarcely a moment later, it came. "What kinda deal?"

Vera smiled, and it was the smile of a man who saw the game as already won. Lilly smiled, shaking her head with a mixture of disbelief and pride. The man was the biggest chauvinist she'd ever met, and one of the most frustratingly self-absorbed human beings… but damn, he knew how to do his job. "Well, now, home slice…" he replied casually, and folded his arms. "That all depends on how much you remember."

* * *

**TBC**

_A/N: I swore to myself I wouldn't ever try to get into Lilly's head, but there it is. Can't say I'm especially pleased with the way it turned out, but what can I say? The woman is persistent. Think I'll be sticking with what I know from now on, though. ;-)_


	8. Bearing Witness

_A/N: Once again, many thanks for the continued feedback. Also, once again, many apologies for taking longer than usual on this one, and leaving it a bit shorter than the previous few. This thing always seems to go running off in a totally different direction to the one I initially plan on taking it... which can be fun, but not so much when you're trying to, y'know, actually get a chapter finished. ;-)_

**8.  
Bearing Witness**

* * *

"Lookin' good, Miller."

It had become a sort of watchword between them. Scotty had learned quickly not to defy Fitzpatrick's instruction that he remain a silent observer, but – for some reason – that simple phrase seemed to bypass the rule and remain unchallenged. Maybe, through his twisted perspective, Fitzpatrick drew some sort of malicious glee from the phrase and its repeated use. Even Scotty couldn't deny there was a sad irony to it (with Kat's appearance moving further away from 'good' the more time passed) but it was the only lifeline – the only fragment of communication – he could offer her without running the risk of incurring the wrath of Fitzpatrick, and he wasn't about to let something as mundane as irony get in the way of that.

"You bet your ass I'm lookin' good, Valens."

The sparkle of laughter had faded from her, leaving behind a glow of gratitude but an otherwise wan imitation of her former self. The decline had been inevitable, Scotty told himself, as if it helped. With no means of telling the time, he had no idea how long had passed since she'd made the triumphant climb to her feet, but it was beginning to feel like forever… and, much as he respected Kat Miller and her inner strength, he was painfully aware of the fact that nobody could endure anything forever, and the time would have to come – sooner, more likely than later – when she would simply be unable to keep fighting.

For his part, Scotty couldn't deny being rather surprised at how well he himself was coping so far. Fitzpatrick had taken every opportunity available to remind him that the entire situation was his fault, and it surprised the hell out of Scotty to find himself more and more resolved against the idea the more it was pointed out to him. He was an expert in the art of blaming himself when his friends and family suffered, sure… but that was _his_ prerogative, and nobody else had the right to force that guilt upon him.

Maybe he was still a little inspired by Miller's refusal to play into Fitzpatrick's hands by showing her weakness, but he somehow doubted that. The cracks in her mask of invulnerability were showing through clearly now, and more than once he'd found himself worried for her. More likely, he thought, it was simply the knowledge that Fitzpatrick – the guy who insisted on Scotty's blame in the first place – was using his friend to force him into feeling guilty for his only successful attempt at repairing his mistakes.

This wasn't about Kat. If she'd refused to come with, and he'd teamed with Lilly, maybe it would've been about her a little (and, even then, that would've no doubt been all inside his head anyway). But, really, it didn't matter. This was about Scotty Valens and the son of the one man he would've beaten to death with his own hands if he'd been given half a chance. There was no chance in hell he'd feel guilty for putting the bastard away. There was no chance in hell that he'd be made to feel guilty for finally being able to come through for his brother, after so many years, and grant him the peace of mind he'd so desperately needed. It was the one thing he'd done in his life that he was truly proud of, and nobody was gonna take that away.

It helped, also, that he was trying to distance himself from his current dilemma. Fitzpatrick wanted him to feel guilty for putting his psychotic old man in prison, while Kat's gunshot wound had been delivered by some deranged lunatic who had caught them off-guard. The two situations were completely unrelated, at least so far as Scotty's sanity was concerned, and he had no intention of allowing them to overlap. The guy whose sole purpose in existence was to make him feel guilty was a totally different guy to the one who'd put a bullet in his friend's leg, and those two guys could never merge, under any circumstance. As soon as that happened, as soon as Scotty allowed himself to realise that Kat was only suffering because Fitzpatrick wanted to punish _him_, it would be more than he could take, and that was exactly what caused mental breakdown.

"Enjoying the show, Valens?"

Fitzpatrick always seemed to know – as if it were some sort of sixth sense – exactly when Scotty was building up the resolve in his own mind, and therein exactly the right moment to pounce on him and attack what little remained on the exposed side of that wall.

"Go to Hell," he growled back.

"You gotta learn to play nice," the other man taunted. "All this is your fault. Ain't no good you puttin' the blame on me. You keep lettin' helpless innocents suffer for your screw-ups, you got no-one but yourself to blame when you gotta stick around and watch."

Scotty sighed, the sound coming close to a growl. "You can keep me here forever, jackass, ain't gonna make me feel guilty. Your old man deserved everything he got, and worse, for what he did to those kids." Despite the part of his mind that yelled at him to show no signs of emotion, he tugged furiously at his restrains. "But, yeah, I get it. It's okay for your daddy to bring down the hurt on innocent kids… soon as it's a cop doin' his job and bringing the sick bastard to justice, suddenly that ain't right."

At that, Fitzpatrick let out a primal howl and raised a hand almost without thinking. He got within an inch of striking Scotty across the face, before catching himself and turning swiftly on his heels. "Nice try," he said darkly. "But you know the rules; Scotty Valens don't need to roll with the punches, he lets other people take 'em for him." Almost before he'd even finished the sentence, he lashed out at Kat, catching her smartly. Despite himself, Scotty winced at the sound, even as Kat made the point of not reacting in the least. "See?" Fitzpatrick went on, turning back to face him again. "You screw up an' they get hurt."

"Hurt?" Kat muttered from her corner. "You call that 'hurt'?" An exhausted grin crossed her face, if only for a second. "My nine-year-old hits harder than you do."

Scotty rolled his eyes. "Lookin' good, Miller."

"You bet your ass I'm lookin' good, Valens."

Neither of them would ever admit it, but there was a decided wobble in her tone on the last syllable of his name, and it almost broke him in half to hear it. She was losing momentum, and – though she made every effort to keep it from showing through on her face – he could hear it in her voice as plainly as if she'd said the words aloud. Fitzpatrick clearly heard it too, as he rounded on Scotty with a smirk that was already claiming victory. "If she dies, Valens," he said, "you think her kid's gonna forgive you?"

Right then, Scotty's heart stopped beating.

The thought had never occurred to him. Why hadn't the thought ever occurred to him? He'd been the one who'd needed to remind Kat that she had a daughter to consider before putting herself in further danger with those wise-cracking remarks, and he was the one who'd needed to remind her that it was _her_ responsibility to keep herself safe for Veronica's sake. And, all the while, Fitzpatrick had been laughing at him and reminding him that everything was _his_ fault… so why hadn't he seen this coming?

Though he knew it would do more harm than good, he snuck a glance at Kat. The colour was fast draining from her face, a feat that even the bullet hadn't achieved, and she looked like she desperately wanted to be sick again but couldn't quite bring herself to relinquish that control; for one moment, she seemed on the brink of surrender. She was comfortable with her own mortality, he knew, and had long ago made her peace with the fact that her job might one day impact upon her daughter… but to hear the subject addressed so plainly (and by the man who literally held her life in his hands in that instant) seemed to shatter her completely. And, for that one agonising moment, Scotty felt the tide of guilt engulf him once again.

She was the one who faced the question, and Scotty would probably have been grateful if he didn't know that it was just her method of trying to cope that forced the words from her lips in the first place. And now, as she spoke, any control she'd previously held over her voice was gone completely, the faint wobble that had crept into it before now an unmistakeable crack that shot through every word and rippled across her face. "You think those kids are gonna forgive your dad for what he did to them?"

"They ain't got nothin' to forgive," Fitzpatrick shouted, and Scotty again found himself overwhelmed by the desire to strangle him. "My daddy didn't do nothin' wrong." He whirled about, eyes latching onto Scotty's with fire blazing in them. "Valens screwed up. My daddy was a good man, wouldn't hurt no-one. He loved them kids. He'd never hurt no-one." There was a feeling of almost desperation in his voice now… as if he was trying to tell himself, because he truly believed what he was saying, that made it so. His father would be a good man, and Scotty really would be the one to blame for his unhappiness. If he wasn't so disgusted and outraged by the situation, Scotty might've felt sorry for the man so trapped in his own delusions.

"That what you tell yourself?" he growled.

Simple as it was, the question caused Fitzpatrick to visibly deflate. Every part of him seemed to collapse in on itself, as if Scotty had run him through with a staple-gun. "We were happy," he said quietly, the sound coming across as utterly submissive. "He was a good man. We were a good family. Everythin' was good. Then you came along and wrecked it." There was a petulance in him now, one that didn't fit the profile of a lunatic who was holding two cops at gunpoint for some perceived slight. "You wrecked _everything_. Weren't nothin' to do with you, and you just came sweeping in and took everything away from me."

"I put your old man in prison," Scotty said. "That ain't everything, that's justice. You can't survive without your daddy holdin' your hand? That ain't my problem."

"Weren't just him you took down, was it?" Fitzpatrick threw back. His face blazed with an intensity that was more frightening even than his former fury, but for all his efforts Scotty couldn't figure out why. Nor could he figure out what the guy was talking about until he elaborated a moment later, the intensity slowly abating in his struggle to form the words. "What you did… it tore us apart. My ma couldn't even get outta bed after you put him away. I had to do everythin', and it still weren't enough. Y'know what that's like, Valens?" His eyes burned into Scotty's once again. "You know what it's like, workin' twenty hours a day just to keep food on the table when she don't even eat no more anyway? You know what it's like, comin' home to find she couldn't take it no more and put a bullet in her brain without even sayin' goodbye?" And suddenly, in the place of the raving lunatic that had taken him captive, stood a small boy – the same age that Mike had been when all this had started – gazing up at Scotty with the fear and pain of loss reflected a hundredfold through the eyes of a child, and he had to swallow over a lump in his throat as the boy Fitzpatrick finished, "It's _your_ fault."

The flash didn't last more than a moment, before the psychotic with the gun was back in his place, but the spectre of what Scotty had seen in that instant remained with him. The image lingered, seemingly grafted onto his mind's eye, and with it the guilt he'd sworn he wouldn't feel. Not about this. This was the thing he wouldn't feel guilty about, the one thing in his life that he hadn't screwed up.

"Scotty." In spite of the tremor that was now a permanent fixture, Kat's voice carried across the room as clear as a klaxon being sounded. "Wasn't your fault. You locked up the son of a bitch 'cause he deserved it for what he did to those kids. Junior here is in denial, that ain't your problem either." She took a deep, laboured breath; Scotty couldn't quite figure out whether she actually needed the oxygen or simply wanted the pause to emphasise the point, but it had the latter effect irregardless. "Not your fault if his whole family is just as damaged as he is." Her eyes rested on his, soft and sympathetic. "It's _not_ your fault."

It was a lie, but one he was eternally grateful for. "Lookin' good, Miller."

She chuckled, voice hoarse. "You bet your ass I'm lookin' good, Valens."

"Yeah?" Fitzpatrick turned on her before Scotty had the chance to respond further; he was getting sick of this 'being here in a strictly observational capacity' BS. "Not his fault, huh? Guy rips my family apart, and it ain't his fault? How 'bout if he rips yours apart too?" He graced her with a contemptuous glance, the scepticism evident on his face. "Not lookin' quite so good from where I'm standin'. Bullet gettin' to ya, girlie?" He smirked. "Another hour, maybe you ain't gonna be so full of smartass words."

"Don't count on it," she replied, perfectly calm.

He took a menacing step towards her, leaning over until they were at eye-level. Very slowly, taking care to drag the motion out as long as possible, he reached up and cupped her chin in his free hand, levelling the gun against her temple with the other. "You die here," he grated, voice coming through in a stage whisper, "and your girl loses her mom like I lost mine. That not his fault either?"

Kat shrugged. "He's not the one with the gun."

If he'd been in any position to do so, Scotty would've admired her poker face. He couldn't even imagine the terror that had to be going through her mind at that moment, for herself and for her daughter, but she held it together and met Fitzpatrick's steely gaze with one of her own. As it was, there wasn't enough thought left in his mind to consider such frivolities, his mind reeling almost out of control with the thoughts and emotions now rushing through it at a thousand miles an hour. He wished he'd never had the opportunity to meet Veronica, because right now her face was swimming before his eyes, young and wide-eyed and filled with that painful innocence of a kid who believed her mother would live forever. The thought of being the one to explain the situation, of having to tell that face her mom wouldn't be coming home, and that it was his fault (whatever the hell Kat had to say on the subject, so far as he was concerned, he might as well have been the one pulling the trigger)… it was more than he could take. Even if he could somehow convince himself that it wasn't his fault if the psychotic's mother had been as unstable as he was, he knew he'd never be able to wipe clean the shame of seeing Veronica's face and knowing that he was about to break her heart into countless irretrievable pieces.

Without shifting position, Fitzpatrick tilted his head to address Scotty. "Don't gotta be the guy who pulls the trigger to be the guy responsible for it. Do ya, Valens?"

He couldn't look at either of them, and not because of the lethal position they were in. Couldn't look at Fitzpatrick without seeing a child who'd lost his parents and didn't understand why. Couldn't look at Miller without seeing a child who was about to lose her mother. Couldn't look at the two of them together, because all he could see were young innocents that he had let down. Hadn't he put the Coach away to protect kids like them? Hadn't he seen the trauma in the eyes of his big brother, way back when they too had been kids, and sworn to himself never to let anyone hurt Mike or any other innocent again? Hadn't it all been so simple, so plain, so black and white? Coach Fitzpatrick was a sick bastard who'd got what was coming to him. His son was a deranged lunatic clinging to a delusion that simply wasn't true. He was a good cop, and he'd done the right thing. He just wished he could figure out why doing the right thing always left the good people in pain.

"No," he whispered, in answer to the question, and in spite of every last nerve in his body which screamed and begged him to reconsider the word. "You don't."

He didn't need to look at them to know that triumph would be pasted over Fitzpatrick's every feature, and he had no intention of raising his head to confirm the fact visually. For her part, Kat let out a tiny strangled noise but otherwise kept her opinion to herself; Scotty had to wonder if, by now, the fear had overwhelmed her entirely and left her literally speechless. He supposed his submission probably wasn't helping in that respect, but it was all he could do at that moment to will his lungs into continuing their struggle for air, let alone concern himself with the emotional condition of his injured colleague. He'd screwed up. He'd told himself again and again that this was different, that there was no way in hell putting the Coach away could've been anything other than the right thing to do (the only possible alternative being to beat the bastard to death, and he still hadn't entirely discounted that idea), that there was no way anyone could possibly get hurt anymore. Even his brother, who'd looked set to succumb into the throes of depression, had come out fighting… and, in an odd sort of way, the whole traumatic fiasco had been cathartic for him. Seeing the man put away, knowing that he was safe for the first time in decades, Scotty had seen the relief dancing across Mike's face, and had shared in that joy every step of the way. They were finally free, both of them, from the nightmares the bastard had caused.

It wasn't fair. Even that one moment of pure peace had to be ruined. Even that one precious moment where Scotty had finally been able to look at someone he cared about and watch the pain wash away like rainwater, even that had to end in disaster. Nothing he ever did was good enough. All he'd wanted to do was free Mike and all the other victims of Coach Fitzpatrick's twisted agenda, from that prison. All he'd wanted was to make sure no other kid was subjected to that fate – one which, as far as he was concerned, was the most shattering thing a human being could endure – and how had it turned out? He'd made a man into an orphan, and looked set to make a little girl into one as well. It wasn't fair. Life wasn't fair. _Nothing_ was fair.

A flurry of motion caught the corner of his eye, and he raised his head in time to see the young Fitzpatrick taking a long step backwards. Content that his point had been made clear as crystal, he set the gun down on the bar and reassumed his comfortable position on the barstool. Kat, paler than Scotty had ever seen her, watched him with a numbness that seemed to be spreading through her entire body. She was fading, he could see it in her eyes. The realisation was enough to trigger another remorseful memory and, once again – with a momentary flash – Lilly was there in her place, life dwindling from her at every heartbeat. All he'd wanted was to be there, to come running when she said 'hey' and play the heroic rescuer, but he couldn't even get that right. Death followed him at every corner, pain lay waiting behind every door. Even when there was no chance in hell that he could possibly screw up, he somehow managed it, so why should he even try?

Her mouth – Lilly's mouth – moved, almost imperceptibly, but he could've sworn she was trying to form the word 'hey'. It was more than he could take, and he squeezed his eyes shut. Sat there, engulfed by the darkness, letting it overwhelm him. He wanted to dig deeper inside himself, to find a last revenant of courage – like Kat always seemed to do – but there was nothing inside to find. Just Scotty Valens. Just the guy who rained conflagrant Hell down upon all the good people in his life, with the best of intentions. Who in the hell had he been trying to fool, telling himself that he'd never feel remorse over this? That this Fitzpatrick thing was something he could be genuinely proud of, and he'd never allow himself to regret or question it? That he'd done the right thing, and thus had no reason to feel guilty? Hell, guilt was the only thing he could do right.

When he finally opened his eyes again, the vision of Lilly had dissolved once again. Kat was staring at him, her eyes huge and dark, silently begging him to say something, anything. He'd never seen her actively plead for the reprieve offered by his worthless watchword, but that was what she was doing now. She looked so small all of a sudden, as if she'd given up completely the hope of keeping the pain from making its presence known. It etched itself across her face, so deep he could lose himself in it; he wanted so desperately to tell her once again that she was looking good, to offer her that one fractional lifeline that Fitzpatrick allowed him, but he couldn't. He didn't even know whether it was because the lie was suddenly too great, or because he was so wrapped up in his own remorse that he couldn't find it within himself to offer a shred of positivity to someone who so needed it. All he knew was that the words wouldn't come, however hard he tried to force them.

"Scotty," she said, and he could see the force of will it took to get the word out. Her breathing was ragged now, almost tortured, and her fingers clutched unconsciously at her wounded leg. "Don't do this to yourself." Even in her weakened state, Fitzpatrick's latest threat on her life clearly having kicked a little too closely for her to cope with by herself, the statement came across as a demand more than a request, and Scotty felt obliged to obey. But it was beyond him to fight back anymore. It was beyond him to believe that there was something left to fight for, and the wrenching gasp that left her lips at a particularly painful breath was enough to drive all thoughts of staying strong even further from his mind. Still, she persisted. "Don't."

He shook his head, letting the motion speak volumes about his condition. "I can't…" and suddenly he was the one who was pleading. Every inch of her was trembling with pain and the struggle to stay conscious, yet he was the one who needed her to help him. "I can't." He took a long, hard look at her. Drank in the pain and suffering that flowed through her in place of the blood she'd lost. Watched the ripples of agony as they flickered across her in waves that were occasionally stifled but now – more often than not – simply ridden out until they passed. And, in a voice that reflected every inch of the regret he felt – for the Fitzpatrick case, for Lilly, for every last thing that he'd screwed up in his life – he managed, "You ain't lookin' so good, Miller."

Perhaps shocking both of them, a fragmented smile shone through. "Close enough, Valens."

* * *

**TBC**


	9. Full Circle

_A/N: For the Nth time, sorry for taking so long on this one; pesky real world kept sneaking up on me. And, as per usual, so so so so so many thanks for all the feedback._

**9.  
Full Circle**

* * *

To the guy's credit, he didn't hold anything back once Vera turned up the heat. Of course, he hadn't expected him to; jackasses like that were all the same. Soon as someone flashed a light in their eyes, they'd tattle on their own brother if it would switch off the mild discomfort. Guy was exactly the worst kind of low-life, in Vera's opinion. The sort of asshole who could coast through his life selling out everyone who came within three miles of him, and therein save his own neck time after time until he pissed off the wrong person. It was just unfortunate, as far as he was concerned, that cops didn't qualify as 'the right person'.

He stood there now, watching the guy slurping down hospital-brand gelatin and sorely wishing he could call him on his self-preservation BS. As it was, the guy seemed to have genuinely surrendered all the information he knew, so there wasn't much more Vera could do than regale him with the most patronising sneer he could muster. Moreover, he could feel the anxiety emanating from where Lilly stood on the opposite side of the merc's bed, and took that as a sign that he needed to keep his priorities straight. He could lay the smack down on their low-life John Doe at a later date; right now, they had two missing colleagues to find.

Truth be told, what little information the merc had provided wasn't that helpful, but Vera had learned a long time ago that such was the game they played. Twist a guy's arm until he gave you ever tiny sliver of coded information his asshole of a boss had given him, then spend the next two hours figuring out what the hell to do with it. And it didn't help that the nature of being a hired gunmen pretty much defaulted to 'no small talk with the boss, ever'. Vera let a low sigh escape his lips; why couldn't Kat and Scotty have gotten themselves taken hostage by a nice normal conversationalist? Why did it have to be one of those obnoxious wannabe super-villains who kept their secrets closer even than their oversized egos? It was freakin' typical.

He made a conscious point of not thanking the guy as he and Lil made their way out of the hospital room, instead opting for the more cryptic (and, sadly, more commonly used) "We'll be seeing you again, jackass". Given the choice, he would've also thrown out the much underrated '_don't you go planning any long trips, ya hear?'_, only the guy's condition made that pretty much impossible, so he had to settle for leaving the verbal ass-kicking there and making a mental note to come back and finish it later, when Kat and Scotty were there to see it and could marvel at the kickass intimidation skills of Supreme Overlord Nick Vera.

Even through all these self-involved thoughts, he couldn't help noticing the slump of Lilly's shoulders as they left the room, her entire body relaxing as if she'd been holding her breath the entire time they'd been in there. Vera watched her curiously, a small frown touching his face. He wanted to confront her about it, to ask if she was okay, to tell her he'd had no idea she hated hospitals _that_ much, to offer any kind of sympathy or reassurance in the face of her discomfort. He wanted to do any one of a thousand things, just to let her know she wasn't alone in feeling edgy, but he couldn't. He was Nick Vera. He didn't 'do' sympathy.

What he could do – and, moreover, what he fancied himself as something of an expert in – was throw out some vaguely inappropriate humour to lighten the moment. It wasn't always welcomed, but it invariably kept people's thoughts away from whatever was bothering them. Sure, it wasn't the heartfelt emotional investment that maybe some people would've liked, but it did its job just as well. "Nice guy," he commented, keeping his voice low – more as an involuntary reaction to being in a hospital than out of any real desire to keep quiet. "Well, y'know, as far as bloodthirsty, money-hungry piece-of-scum low-lives go."

Lilly stared at him, open-mouthed, as if she couldn't believe what she was hearing. "How many of those vending-machine coffees did you drink?" she asked, concerned.

He spread his arms, the picture of innocence, and the anxious look on her face melted away in favour of reproachful affection. Neither of them said anything to follow up this brief exchange, but it seemed pretty obvious that – even in its brevity – it'd had precisely the effect he'd intended. For the first time since they'd arrived, the look on Lilly's face told of something other than worry and sorrow, and that was valuable. And, yeah, maybe Vera should've tried harder to be the sympathetic shoulder, but who in the hell would believe that coming from him? And why in the hell should he waste everyone's time by make insincere gestures of empathy and suffering, when they all knew he could bring out a genuine smile in anyone simply by playing the fool?

That was how things were, and everybody knew that. Nick Vera wasn't the guy you turned to when you needed to spill your heart out. He was the guy you turned to when you wanted cheering up, and he didn't mind being that guy one little bit. Theirs was one of the most high-maintenance careers in existence; for every traumatic or disturbing or unsettling case they had to deal with, every time one of them had to face down their innermost fears in the name of doing their job, every tormented witness they had to interview, Nick Vera had a witty quip at the ready. Eight times out of ten, they'd say he was being insensitive or unhelpful or a chauvinist pig… and he was cool with that because, nine times out of ten, they'd be grinning as they said it.

The improvement to Lilly's mood lasted until they returned to the office, and Vera couldn't deny the slight dip in his stomach as they stepped over the threshold and into a room that suddenly seemed so empty with the absence of half its usual occupants. Jeffries sat at his desk, scowling miserably at what looked like an Origami halibut (Vera had no doubt he'd later be told it was a mystical flying fish from Taiwan; the older man seemed to have developed an unhealthy obsession with making obscure animals out of paper since his brief flirtation with desk duty a couple of years back), and the door to Stillman's office was left open uncharacteristically wide. It didn't take a genius to figure out why, and Vera's suspicions on the subject were confirmed as the lieutenant stepped out to greet them before they'd both fully gotten themselves back into the office.

"Well?" he asked, wasting no time.

Lilly took the initiative. "Bastard wasn't helpful, Boss. You know what these low-lives are like." She sighed, and Vera caught her eyes wandering to Scotty's noticeably empty seat, where they remained unwavering for the rest of her expostulation. "Guy we're after is Something Fitzpatrick – good-for-nothing hired gun wouldn't give up a first name, if he ever knew it. Apparently, he's got some kind of grudge against Scotty. Kinda shady on the details, but our John Doe seemed to think Scotty had done something to the guy's family." A small, wry smile crossed her lips. "He reckons the guy's a psycho. And, y'know, coming from a fella who sells himself to gun down total strangers, that's really gotta be saying something."

A tight frown was creeping its way across Stillman's forehead. Evidently, the name meant something to him, but he refrained from commenting on the fact. "You get any locations to hit up? Anywhere this Fitzpatrick would be likely to have taken them?" The words held the crisp professionalism that was second nature to the man by this point in his career, but hidden carefully beneath was a layer of hope.

Though the question was aimed at Lilly, Vera knew she wouldn't answer. He could see the distraction creeping across her face, evidenced by her refusal to look away from Scotty's desk even as Stillman addressed her; much as he wanted to look down upon her (admittedly rare) flash of amateurism, he knew that she was just encapsulating the thoughts and concerns that were diverting all of them. It was one thing, he knew, when a member of the team had a personal connection with a case. Hell, it'd happened to all of them at one point or another. But this was different. This affected all of them. The team was practically a family, and no asshole on some twisted vengeance trip had the right to disturb family.

For Vera, Scotty had always been a slightly obnoxious kid brother, the kind he always gave a hard time but secretly threatened to beat the crap out of anyone who messed with him. Not that he could beat the crap out of anyone, even on a good day – and, more likely than not, Scotty himself would no doubt end up having to bail him out of whatever trouble he'd got himself into – but it was the sentiment that mattered. It was the same sentiment that had brought out that almost-extinct shard of empathetic bonding in Vera, that one time when Scotty had been doubting himself and his abilities as a cop. He'd been questioned over the death of some girl he'd known while working some undercover job (and it had amused the hell out of Vera at the time to think that straight-laced Scotty Valens had dipped his toes into the murky waters of undercover work), and had taken it hard. Vera couldn't blame him for that, but it had brought out an unfamiliar paternal instinct in him that he'd genuinely believed he'd never feel. And, more than that – though he'd never admit it to anyone in a million years – it had meant the world to him that night, to see the look in Scotty's eyes as he'd absorbed the scant advice Vera had given him. It was a look that had said – though, like Vera, Scotty too would never admit it – '_thanks, man'_.

With Kat, it was different. The moment he'd first met her, way back when she was in Narcotics, he'd promised himself he'd never like her. It was the way Stillman had looked at her, so awestruck by her simple observations, and the way she'd clearly known exactly what the boss was thinking. The way she'd played him, Vera had known right then and there that she'd have an offer to join their team within a week. It had made him furious, and he'd made it his duty to find out every last detail about her, and give Stillman a reason to kick her ass back to Narc where she belonged. It had all changed, of course, the minute he'd discovered exactly who Veronica was, and the world had come crashing down on him in a cavalcade of realisation and – yeah, okay, he'd admit it – respect. Nick Vera hadn't even been able to balance his job and his marriage without the latter falling apart, while Kat Miller had been jailing dealers with one hand and raising a kid with the other without even breaking a sweat. Even the self-confessed chauvinist had to admit, that was pretty damn impressive.

Nick Vera wasn't the self-sacrificing sort. Hell, if he'd been on the_ Titanic_ when it was sinking, he would've probably been the guy shoving women and children out of the way and taking up a whole lifeboat to himself. It was a flaw he wasn't especially proud of, but he had no intention of denying that side of himself any more than he would deny the side of himself that was an expert in the subtle art of BS scumbags into revealing everything they knew. But even so, even with his selfish nature and his refusal to put himself in danger even for the sake of those more deserving, he couldn't help wishing he'd been the one Fitzpatrick had chosen to mess with. Not because he could handle himself any better than Valens or Miller – hell, he'd probably be the first to crack, and he wasn't about to deny that either – but, in what he was sure had to be the most altruistic thought he'd ever had, because it would mean they wouldn't be the ones missing now. The team could get on without him. Sure, it'd be horribly boring without him around, and maybe they would've missed out on one or two vital confessions brought about by his superior prowess… but, when all was said and done, he wasn't anything special. He wasn't the guy you'd place your bets on changing the world or doing something great. He was the guy who offered up a cheap laugh because he was pretty damn crap at doing anything else. They'd miss him, sure, but he wouldn't be missed.

Scotty had the potential to be great; Vera hadn't been lying when he'd thrown out those compliments that night. He was a fantastic cop, passionate and intense (more even than Lilly); the world needed people like him. And Kat? She had a kid. Maybe she wasn't gonna go much further than he was, but her responsibilities were twofold. Vera was smart enough to know– if things didn't work out between him and Toni, or if something happened to him – that Andre would deal. Oh, he'd be bummed, sure. But he was old enough to understand that crap happened. Veronica was so much younger, and Kat was all she had in the world. Scotty was the guy with the future, and Kat was the girl with the obligations. Nick Vera was just some obnoxious jackass that nobody had quite figured out was just dead weight. It wasn't right that they were in trouble while he was sitting there worrying and – even now, through all of this – secretly wondering if the donut place was still open.

"Nick." Stillman's voice, gentle as it could be under the circumstances, cut into his thoughts. Vera could see that he was about to repeat his previous question, but the usual irritation that would've shown through at having to do so was absent in favour of a quiet understanding. He knew exactly where his team's mind was (except perhaps for the donut part), and – without even saying a word – he was letting them know that his mind was there too. "We need locations," he went on, soft. "You get any from this guy?"

The question, mingled with the empathy, brought Vera back down to reality. "Nothing specific. Just said the guy had a bunch of places picked out. Didn't wanna just take them anyplace, had to be somewhere that meant something to 'em." He exhaled, frustrated. "Guy's a psycho, says to me it'd be someplace bad. Y'know, someplace with unpleasant memories or something. You remember that guy, year before last, took his victims to places they picked out?" He glanced at Lil, who nodded in silence. "Something kinda like that."

Jeffries, who had been oddly quiet until that point, grunted and shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "That narrows it down," he muttered. "Guy might as well have kept quiet."

To the surprise of what seemed like the entire team, it was Lilly who rounded on him for his latest bout of unwanted pessimism. "You feel like being helpful, Will, or you want to keep playing with your paper fieldmouse while the rest of us try and make use of what we've got?" she snapped.

Jeffries looked genuinely wounded at that. "It's a lotus."

Lilly threw up her hands in surrender, turning her back on him with a disgusted sigh. For his part, Vera watched with concern as Jeffries returned his attention to the fish lotus thing; while it wasn't strictly uncharacteristic of him to be the guy bringing the (occasionally much-needed, if never welcomed) downcast realism to the table, it was rather less like him to be so defeatist about it. Jeffries was the product of a different time, Vera knew, and often used that well-worn age to remind the rest of the team that sometimes the world didn't bend just because they wanted it to. Vera had an enormous amount of respect for the man (as he was sure Lilly did), but he wasn't so caught up in his own emotional reactions to miss when something wasn't right with him.

Before he had the chance to confront the older man about it, Stillman brought the focus neatly back to the task at hand, not even acknowledging the previous incident. "So we narrow it down further." Even as he spoke to all three of them, his eyes were fixed rigidly upon Vera and Rush. Much as it pained him to admit it, Vera could understand why; everyone knew how deeply the affection shared between Lilly and Scotty went, and everyone knew that Nick Vera was the guy who turned Kat Miller's business into his business… but Jeffries was just the guy who did his job and kept his personal life to himself. What were the odds that he'd be the one who'd know either of their missing colleagues well enough to be hit by the vital brainstorm?

And maybe that was why he was playing with his Origami creatures again. Vera knew – as the whole team did – how useless he'd felt when he was stuck on desk duty, with nothing to do but man a phone that never rang anyway. The paper-folding, if nothing else, had given him a momentary distraction from that restlessness of suddenly not having anything better to do with his time, and the shame of having to be punished like some vagrant kid for the sake of having done what he'd believed (and ultimately been proven correct) was the right thing. Vera felt his heart go out to the other man, then, who no doubt felt his age more profoundly than ever before. More even than Stillman, quite probably, because at least he was the boss and had the prerogative to yell at them for doing their jobs badly, even if he too lacked enough insight to offer any productive suggestions.

Vera sank comfortably into the chair opposite Jeffries, shooting the other cop a vaguely optimistic smile. Once again, he made a conscious effort to shy away from the sympathetic shoulder BS, and instead focussed on doing what he did best. Leaning far enough forward that he could whisper in a vaguely conspiratorial tone, he tilted his head at the Origami lotus. "I thought it was a halibut," he offered, cheerfully.

As always, it had the desired effect. Jeffries, snapped out of his reverie by the fact that someone was actually taking an interest in his toys, chuckled politely. "Guess I need practise."

It wasn't a huge step up, but it was something, and Nick Vera was exactly the kind of guy who took 'something' and turned it into 'something useful'. "Nah," he said, not missing a beat. "You just need to educate the rest of us slobs on all those exotic Japanese birds."

The chuckle escalated into something that could almost have been genuine amusement. That, Vera couldn't quite keep from thinking, really was a step up. "Lotus is a flower, Nick."

Vera grinned. "Potayto, Potahto…"

At last, Jeffries's stoic expression melted away into something more closely matching the faint laughter that once again left his lips. He shook his head in faux-disdain, even as his eyes told a different story. Yeah, Nick Vera was an expert in the art of playing the fool, a sentiment that was neatly reinforced as Jeffries took the moment to voice his appreciation. "You're a good guy, Nick," he said, with a warmth that Vera couldn't deny he found rather touching. "I kind of worry about your sanity… but, yeah, you're a good guy."

"Just doin' my job," Vera replied with a smirk, though they both knew that wasn't the case. His job was to solve murders and – in this case – research the most likely places for psychotic hostage-takers to be hiding. It wasn't part of his job, or anyone else's on the team, to stop a friend feeling displaced. That was unpaid overtime, but damn if it wasn't more fulfilling than the real thing sometimes. Not always, but sometimes. More than likely, Lilly the workaholic would disagree with that assertion, pointing out again and again the fulfilment of a case solved properly, but he was pretty certain everyone else would be happy to concur with him.

For a couple of long minutes, silence descended over the office, broken only by the shuffling of paper as Lilly started taking notes. Vera, for his part, couldn't help trying to avoid putting his thoughts to the necessary subject. Scotty, he knew, had a lot of issues, any one of which could have some vitally important place attached to it that his grudge-holding captor would pick out; but with Miller, it was like mining for gold. The woman was so infuriatingly guarded with her secrets and her personal life that even the great Detective Nick Vera hadn't been hugely successful in his attempts at breaking through. Moreover, and even if they'd had no direct knowledge of their colleagues' personal lives, the very nature of what they did invariably resulted in an entire career track full of unpleasant experiences and circumstances, any one of which could've been considered significant and personal to their psychotic captor. Which, he supposed, was quite probably the most sensible place to start.

He wasn't entirely sure about the ethical ramifications of running through personnel records of people who weren't there to give permission (and he was pretty damn positive that Miller at least would give him a mouthful of abuse for even thinking about it), but the fact was that unpleasantness of a professional variety was far more likely to reach the public's ears than that of a personal one and, frankly, with all the BS she'd given him a hard time over since joining his team, one more infringement on her privacy – especially if it stood a chance of saving her life, though that right there was a thought he had no intention of entertaining – was a risk that Vera was more than prepared to take. Still, he supposed there would be no harm in pre-empting the inevitable blazing row, with a peace offering of sorts, and once again found himself turning to Jeffries.

"Feel like hitting the donut place?" he asked, as casually as he could.

Jeffries stared at him as if he'd grown an extra head. "You kidding?"

"Nah. Cops don't work on empty stomachs, right?" He let that comment hang selfishly on the air for a few moments, making a show of revelling in the disgusted noise Lilly was making in his general direction, before elaborating further. "And, okay… so… maybe I kinda wanna replace Miller's before she gets back and kicks my ass. Maybe." Jeffries shook his head, and Vera pressed on. "So. We find 'em, we bring 'em home safe and sound, and she never finds out I ate her donut." He beamed proudly. "Everybody wins."

It was another thing that Nick Vera was expert at; injecting optimism into even the most mundane of sentences. So far as Jeffries and Rush needed to know, he wasn't wasting his time pondering the possibility that they'd never dig up a feasible location for their missing teammates; so far as they needed to know, he was already planning their 'welcome home' party. It wouldn't do anyone any good if the entire team – or what remained of it in the absence of Valens and Miller – was fraught with pessimism and realism and all those other important yet painful emotions that inevitably came flooding to the forefront in situations like this. Someone needed to keep their feet from getting planted too firmly on the ground, and that someone was Nick Vera.

He knew as well as anyone how high the odds were stacked against them, and knew exactly how much work they'd need to do just to pull up a list of potential locations to hit, let alone actually hitting all of them. But that wasn't his place. Lilly had the hard-working side of things down, and Jeffries had the odds-are-stacked realism. Those bases were covered, thanks, and Vera had never been particularly good at either anyway. So he took the middle ground, understanding both sides but choosing the alternative. It wasn't denial, because he'd convinced himself that he knew what he was dealing with. No, it was more like a reminder of what they were striving for, what all the hard work and realism were leading up to, a sort of beacon making sure that Lilly didn't get too caught up in working too hard and Jeffries didn't get too caught up wallowing in self-pity to lose sight of what they were after. In a way, Vera fancied himself the calm voice of reason within the maelstrom that was Homicide and – even though he was fairly certain the rest of the team would disagree – he took great pride in living up to that title. Even if it did occasionally earn him some weird looks from his colleagues. Occasionally, like right now.

Of course, the odd looks didn't really bother him, as Jeffries nonetheless climbed to his feet with a resigned sigh. Vera supposed that, if the man was going to be lounging around feeling useless while the others did the hardcore research, he'd much sooner be doing so if he was walking around with a genuine destination than sitting at his desk and folding pieces of paper (and Vera made a mental note to ask him what in the hell was so appealing about that anyway). Vera allowed the grin on his face to widen as Jeffries scowled at him, and promptly slapped a couple of notes into his hand. "Biggest box you can get," he said, insistently.

He kept his attention fixed so firmly upon Jeffries as the latter rolled his eyes and made his way towards the door, that he didn't notice Lilly staring at him until they were once again alone. Though her expression was hard and filled with impatience (which he supposed he could understand), there was a tiny spark of light in her eyes that suggested she knew what he was trying to do and appreciated the effort. Nonetheless, the words that came out of her mouth were effective at steeling him for the daunting task that now lay ahead of them. "Nice to see your stomach is your highest priority here, Nick, when Scotty and Kat are still missing."

It would've been useless to argue with her, and doubly so given that her eyes continued to undermine the harshness of her words. Nobody would ever admit an active appreciation of anything Nick Vera said, however kindly it was intended, and he'd gleefully sucker-punch anyone who tried to call him Mr. Sensitive, but he could always tell when someone was verbally abusing and didn't really mean it. And, as a man who spoke Verbal Abuse like a second language, sometimes that meant more than any '_you're a good guy, Nick'_ ever could. So, making a point of ignoring the cut of Lilly's words, he focussed instead on the light behind her eyes, and smiled. "Nice to see you approve," he threw back. "Now, let's go and shamelessly invade our friends' privacy."

* * *

**TBC**

_A/N: It's shameful how much I enjoyed writing this chapter. Vera is so much fun to write, it's criminal. ;-)_


	10. Disciplined Breakdown

_A/N: As always, countless thanks to everyone who took the time to review; feedback really does make the world go around. Just to make the warning again, this chapter does touch on one or two slightly darker themes. Nothing too horrible, but it's a far cry from Origami halibuts._

**10.  
Disciplined Breakdown**

* * *

Kat Miller was an expert when it came to staying strong for other people, but the worst kind of amateur when it came to staying strong for herself. It was easy, keeping herself together, while she believed it would help Scotty to do the same. If she concentrated exclusively on his inner turmoil, she could pretend that she wasn't falling apart. If she convinced herself that his emotional mindset was the most important thing in the room, she could pretend that she wasn't bleeding. If she directed all her energy into reinforcing what remained of his sanity, she could pretend that she wasn't terrified. If she believed that this whole nightmare really was all about Scotty and nothing to do with her, she could pretend that she wasn't going to die here.

As soon as he stopped listening to her, it stopped working. She could see the surrender in his eyes, could hear the defeat in his voice, and it broke her inside. He'd never know it – or maybe he already did; maybe that was why he'd held out for even this long – but, in being their to focus on, he was keeping her alive. It was more than his words that offered her a lifeline, a vital sanctuary wherein she could forget her pain for just a moment. It was everything about him. Just by being there, by acknowledging her words when she spoke to him, he offered her something priceless, something she couldn't keep breathing without.

He'd always taken some small solace when she'd spoken to him. Even if he'd loathed the words she'd said, even if he'd been angered by her incessant back-talking Fitzpatrick, a small part of him had been proud of her for fighting the good fight until her last breath. He'd never admit it, for her sake, but she'd seen it in his eyes. Only, as time passed, it had faded until – finally – there was nothing left inside him but emptiness. He could see the strain she was under, the pain and blood loss beginning to catch up with her (and she cursed her body for that), but he seemed unable to distinguish her cursed physical weakness from the inner strength she was still forcing herself to maintain for his sake (always for his sake, never for hers). It wasn't just in his eyes that she saw that; it was there in every facet of his being. He was playing her funeral in his mind.

Seeing that surrender in him forced her to consider it herself, and that hurt almost more than the bullet wound. The first time she'd been shot, she'd sworn it would never happen again. It wasn't the pain, wasn't even the blood loss (though right now, both of those were really beginning to piss her off); it was the helplessness. She'd been unable to stand, almost unable to move at all; she was certain that, back then, she'd gone into shock before she'd even had time to realise it was a bad move. This time, she'd fared better, but only through the sickening memories of what had happened the last time. She wouldn't allow herself to be helpless like that again, to lay there gasping like a fish who'd been taken out of water, unseeing and unthinking and barely breathing while her blood soaked through everything and her partner handled the immediate crisis with no help from her. That wasn't how to be a cop, it was how to be a victim, and Kat was nobody's goddamn victim.

The pain swelled, shattering her resolve and her train of thought for a long breathless moment. Her field of vision flooded with red, and she felt that same hated helplessness sweep through her once again; she could do nothing but ride out the wave, feel every twisting pulse as it ripped through her like a hurricane, and wait for it to abate just enough to let her focus her thoughts again. She could feel herself shaking, and realised dimly that she was cold. Ice shards tore through her lungs, and her muscles went into aching spasms to try and counteract the sudden chill that seeped right through her very essence and held her captive.

She expected the cold to subside when the spike of pain did. Expected, as her body came crashing down from the adrenaline high that was one of the less unpleasant side-effects of gut-wrenching agony, that the cold would ease back out of her and leave her – if not comfortable – at least not frozen. But it didn't abate even a little, even after the pain had once again faded back to an almost bearable level. If anything, without the searing wave diverting her attention, the cold felt even more pronounced than before, and wormed its way deeper inside her until she couldn't even remember what it felt like to not be this deeply frozen.

"Kat?" Scotty's voice sounded like it was coming from much further away than it really was, and she shook her head carefully to try and clear it. He sounded worried, and she hated that; he wasn't allowed to worry about her, he had a million other things to worry about. It was her duty to worry about him, that was what kept her focussed. If he was worrying about her, that meant she was in a condition that warranted concern. And, if she was in a condition that warranted concern, then she would fall back into that horrible position of needing to stay strong for herself and nobody else, and that was the one thing she could never do.

With considerable effort, she forced her lips to move, wondering briefly if they had turned blue. She'd heard that happened sometimes, when a person was that goddamn cold, and Christ Almighty but she was that goddamn cold. "Scotty," she heard herself whisper, her eyes resting blurrily on the anxious concern that painted itself across his face. The expression was unbecoming on him, and she was more than happy to point that out if it meant bringing the focus back to his dilemma. "Now who ain't lookin' so good?"

He tried to laugh, but the sound wouldn't come, and the concern didn't disappear from his face. In fact, there was no noticeable change in his expression at all, save perhaps a slight deepening of the frown. That wasn't good. She needed to stop him looking at her that way. Needed to stop him seeing her as someone whose death sentence had already been signed. He was the guy in trouble here, not her. Fitzpatrick had said so; none of this was about her, it was all about him. About Scotty. She wasn't Scotty, dammit!

"Kat…" he said again, and the worry in his voice deepened.

"Stop saying it like that!" She tried to inject some passion into her voice, but the cold had overpowered even the most deeply-hidden fire inside her soul, leaving her with no choice but to be content simply to have gotten the words out in the first place. "I'm not… a goddamn invalid… Scotty."

Naturally, this statement seemed to amuse the hell out of Fitzpatrick, who burst into raucous laughter. "She's a real trooper, ain't she, Valens?" he asked, voice dripping with sarcasm.

The comment affected both cops differently. Scotty, as per usual, reacted with violence, straining for what seemed like the thousandth time against his restraints in a bid to get at Fitzpatrick and deliver some kind of retribution for his big mouth. Kat, for her part, was grateful for the opportunity to hit back at a smartass remark without holding back (or, at least, only holding back as much as her condition forced her to, which she promised herself wouldn't be very much at all). "He's a real jackass, ain't he, Valens?" she muttered.

Fitzpatrick burst out laughing again, but Scotty stopped fighting his shackles and fixed her with a furious glare. "Stop doing that. Stop tryin' to make like all this crap is just some wisecrack Vera threw at you and you gotta throw one back 'cause he ain't allowed to win. It ain't a _game_, Miller. It's your goddamn blood all over the goddamn floor and if you don't knock off this tough-chick BS, you're gonna be dead before you know it." His eyes softened at that, the heady mixture of anger and worry dissolving in favour of a grief so depthless it made her want to strangle him for giving up so easily. "You gotta make peace, Kat," he finished softly.

If she wasn't shivering so hard, she would've jabbed an accusing finger at him. As it was, knowing perfectly well that she'd never be able to keep her hand steady, she just tried to keep her eyes trained on his, even as she absorbed his defeat and shaped it into something less useless. "You mean _you_ gotta make peace," she pointed out, wishing she didn't sound so damn exhausted. "And you can't do that 'till I do."

The look on his face told her everything she needed to know, and he didn't even try to deny it. He slumped back against the wall, clearly spent. "Fine," he said, wearily. "Go out in denial. Do whatever the hell you want. I'm done caring." Even as he spoke the words, it was obvious that he too was in denial about that. Scotty Valens didn't stop caring, that was his folly. Of course he cared. He cared too much.

"I'm not gonna die, Scotty." The sentence was barely an exhalation, voice tightening as another wave of pain began to descend upon her, but it was important that she got the words out. "I'm not at my best… right now… but I'm not gonna die." She closed her eyes, her breath lapsing into short gasps as she fought off the pain. She could feel his anxiety peaking, even without being able to see him, and fought that little bit harder just to prove him wrong. "I'm not gonna die." She let the last revenants of the wave roll over her, biting back the urge to scream, because that took more energy than she had. "If I die… Veronica would kill me."

She'd intended the comment to come across as mildly ironic, but it seemed only to heighten Scotty's defeat as her eyes dragged themselves open and worked at refocusing on him. "Don't, Kat…" he whispered, and she could see the tears in his eyes even as the rest of him was still blurry and indistinct; he wouldn't let them fall, she knew, but it was enough that they were there. "For Christ's sake, don't say that."

It was so hard to breathe. She wanted to apologise for making him uncomfortable, to point out that she wasn't exactly thinking straight and maybe it hadn't been the most appropriate thing she could've said, but she couldn't find the oxygen within her lungs to fuel the words. All she could find now was the rawness that came with being so damn cold. She couldn't help thinking it was unfair, her leg hurting so damn much, that her lungs were starting to betray her now as well. There didn't seem to be a part of her left that wasn't screaming in protest against the mere effort of staying alive— no, staying _conscious_. She was alive, and was going to be alive for a long time. She wasn't going to die. She'd told him that, and she wasn't about to be branded a liar.

"God," he was muttering, his voice almost inaudible; not with agony as hers had been, but with a tragic sort of awe. "If you could see yourself, Miller. If you could just _see_ yourself."

That would've been the last thing she wanted. She'd known he was lying when he'd told her she was looking good, but she didn't want to know how deeply that lie went. She understood the depthless concern in his voice and eyes, and knew it had to be driven by something more than irritation at her stubborn refusal to quit throwing out verbal quips. She was a cop; she'd seen gunshot victims before, and she knew it wasn't pretty. At that thought, the name Skill Jones ricocheted through her mind, and she remembered in vivid Technicolor how he'd looked in her arms as the life ebbed out of him. The memory wrapped itself around her heart and squeezed tight, leaving her breathless. She wasn't going out like that. No way was she going out like that.

"Appearances can be deceiving," she said, wincing at the unsteadiness in her voice. If she couldn't keep her words strong, she'd never be able to keep the rest of herself that way.

"Yeah…" Scotty replied, making no attempts to hide the doubt. His face was a void, empty of all emotion but defeat and surrender. She could tell him a million times that she wasn't going to die, and he still wouldn't believe her. In a way, it seemed like he didn't _want_ to believe her, as if it would be too painful to sustain that optimism only to have it destroyed if she was wrong. She supposed she could understand that; he was, after all, the guy who had been here too many times already. This place was a revenant of her past, but he was the one who'd experienced this situation more times than she. Watching people get shot and hurt and killed, and blaming himself each and every time, as if that would bring them back. Sitting there, helpless and alone, unable to do or say anything to help. A victim to his own inner conflict and a slave to circumstance. Nothing was more likely to make a person give up the fight quite like circumstance, Kat knew that all too well. He'd been a witness too long; it was impossible for him now to see himself as anything else, to consider the possibility that maybe – just by pretending to believe her when she told him she wasn't going to die – maybe that would help to make the words true.

She closed her eyes, hugging herself. Her body was still shivering hard, and she wished the spasms would actually generate some goddamn heat. If she hadn't been so sure that the mortification wouldn't be worth it, she would've swallowed her pride and begged Fitzpatrick for a blanket or something. As it was, she did what she did best, and endured quietly, trying to fuel her resolve with what little Scotty was giving her. It wasn't the same without that underlying pride, or the understated admiration that had told her – even when he'd been insisting she stop goofing around and think of herself in all this – he was proud of how well she'd kept together. It was different now, defeat actually meaning defeat. He wasn't telling her to stop goofing around because he didn't believe she understood the severity of the situation; he was telling her to stop goofing around because he genuinely believed that one of those witty retorts would be her last. The whole atmosphere had changed, and she just didn't have the strength to raise her anger to meet it. It was enough, for now, to want so desperately to prove him wrong, but even that wouldn't be enough to sustain her for very long. She needed something bigger.

Her problem, she was beginning to figure out, was that she was scared of being scared. The concept of dying wasn't what frightened her; it was the idea that – if she allowed herself to keep slipping – when she did go, she'd be curled up on the floor, trembling not with cold but with helpless terror. With death came the knowledge that she'd be gone from this world, and there was no doubt in her mind that her last thoughts would be of Veronica. It would break her. Knowing she'd be leaving her child to face the nightmares of the world alone, knowing that she'd never see her evolve into an obnoxious teenager or a beautiful young woman. That was the most terrifying thing in the world and, while she believed herself to be adequately denying it for the time being (well, okay… maybe there had been a minor slip earlier, but Fitzpatrick had forced her hand), she knew that – when the time came for her to make peace with her fate – she wouldn't be able to hide from it. And, once she allowed those thoughts in, then the fear would take hold of her and not let go. If she accepted that she was going to die, she would have to accept that she was going to die crippled by fear. And that scared her more than anything else.

Suddenly infuriated with herself for even dwelling on the possibility of her own demise (she wanted to blame Scotty's influence for that, but she was the one who'd spent this entire experience insisting that none of it was his fault and she wasn't about to rescind that opinion now), she allowed her eyes to drift open again. She wanted to absorb the room again, even absorb the defeat on Scotty's face. Wanted to remind herself that she could still see. She wasn't going to die, because all her senses were still intact and she was still breathing. Sure, the pain was trying its best to break her, but it was real and it was solid, and being able to feel it and focus on the sensation was comforting in its own way. As long as her senses remained alive, then she would too.

The sight that greeted her was enough to make her wish she'd kept her eyes closed and dwelt upon the darkness some more. Fitzpatrick, apparently having once again found himself bored with being a smartass from the comfort of his barstool, was leaning over her once again, face so close to hers that she could see the mania dancing in his eyes and taste the bitterness on his breath. She sighed – or, more accurately, made the closest approximation to a sigh that her screaming lungs would allow – and leaned her head back until it made contact with the wall. Tempting as it was to lapse into cliché by asking '_what do __you__ want?'_, she wasn't quite far gone enough to allow her repertoire to decline that much. Instead, she went for a slightly more empowered (but still far from her usual edge), "You really got nothin' better to do with your time than stare at gunshot victims?"

Despite herself, the use of the word 'victim' made her cringe just a little, and she recoiled. Fitzpatrick, for his part, smiled lazily. "Not really," he said honestly. "Just gotta wait for Valens to crack, or you to keel over an' put yourself outta your misery. And, to be honest, he ain't half as nice to look at."

Kat rolled her eyes, almost blacking out as neon lights flashed across her field of vision as a direct result of the gesture. "You're one hell of a charmer, Slick," she muttered, determined not to let the momentary weakness show. "I bet … I bet you say that to all your mortally wounded… hostages."

For his part, Fitzpatrick merely shrugged, his eyes trailing over her as if he was appraising her net value. It didn't bother her, particularly; though there was a hint of appreciation in the smirk that played at his lips, nothing on his face suggested any lewd intent. Instead, she got the impression he was doing (albeit rather more overtly) exactly what Scotty had been doing ever since she'd been shot. Checking her condition, seeing just how close to death she really was, and trying to figure out what would push her over the edge.

After an indecent amount of time, he leaned back ever so slightly. Not enough to allow her to feel comfortable again, but far enough that the invasion of her personal space was slightly less pressing. He let out a low chuckle, and shook his head. "You must _really_ love that kid of yours…" he observed simply.

Kat bristled. "That's got… exactly nothing… to do with you."

Fitzpatrick ignored her, crouching down on the balls of his feet to keep from leaning over. "C'mon. Anyone with half a brain cell would've rolled over an' died an hour ago," he went on, oblivious to her outrage. "But you keep hangin' on. 'Cause you don't wanna imagine the look on your little girl's face when she finds out her ma ain't comin' home. You ain't as tough as you think you are, and you ain't foolin' nobody. You ain't hangin' on because you're some kind of queen bitch super-cop. You're hangin' on 'cause you love your kid."

His suggestion cut deeply, but Kat kept that to herself. "You jealous?"

To her surprise, he didn't answer. She'd expected him to get angry, to slap her again, or round on Scotty and blame him for her insolence. Something. But he didn't. The self-satisfied cruelty on his face was wavering, replaced by the immature petulance of one so many years younger than him. In fact, if she looked at him hard enough – which she tried to avoid doing, as squinting in her present state made her nauseous – she could see that vulnerability manifest itself, his older self fading away for a moment in favour of a small boy. It lasted only a second, but it shook her, as he glared at her with that childlike innocence, and said, "It ain't fair."

"She's my daughter," Kat said plainly, as if that was the answer to every question that had ever been asked. "Biggest pain in the ass I've ever met… but she's my daughter." Her eyes wanted to slide closed again, but she fought that temptation, feeling compelled to maintain eye contact. "You bet your ass I love her…" Her entire body protested with wrenching spasms as she tried to draw in a breath. "…so much it hurts."

From where he sat, still cuffed to the wall, Scotty twitched. "You don't gotta answer him," he said. "He's just gonna use it against you, anyway. You gotta learn to keep your mouth shut."

"So do you," Fitzpatrick growled, turning to glare at him for a moment. "Private party here, Valens. You ain't got nothin' constructive to add, you stay the hell out of it." He shrugged, but the gesture seemed rather more forced than genuine. "Unless you want me to put her outta her misery now?"

A low growl escaped Scotty's lips, but he kept from saying anything further; whether this was out of a genuine concern for Kat's well-being, or through an insatiable desire to no longer be the guy responsible for anything, it was impossible to tell. In the long run, it didn't matter, and Fitzpatrick returned his attention to Kat without a moment's consideration. "So tell me, queen bitch super-cop," he said, and Kat couldn't stop her lips from twitching at that, "what's your little girl got that's so goddamn special, that I ain't?" Before she had the chance to open her mouth and reel off a list of reasons (mostly circulating back to '_you're a crazed psychopath and my daughter is a nine-year-old girl_…'), he continued. "What's so bad about me that my ma would sooner been dead than stick around while I worked my ass off to make things right after he—" he pointed over his shoulder at Scotty, not breaking eye contact with Kat "—sent my daddy away? What's so goddamn great about your kid that her ma would go through hell to hang around for her?" And, once again, he spoke with the sorrow of a small child who couldn't understand simple facts, and Kat had to fight to keep her heart from going out to him. "What'd I do wrong?"

She shook her head sadly, realising just a moment later how stupid the move was, and reeled dizzily for a few very painful seconds. "Wasn't about you," she said quietly, when she'd recovered. She could hear Scotty choking with indignation, but she ignored him. In every way that mattered, Fitzpatrick was like a little boy. He'd been a bystander while terrible things had befallen his family, and hadn't had a choice but to watch as his life had been turned upside down and destroyed. His mind, what was left of it, couldn't accept the fact that his father had been the cause of it all, and he'd displaced all the blame that rightfully belonged to the older man, onto Scotty. She imagined there was probably some fancy-ass psychological name for what was going through his twisted mind, but the only thought she could conceive right then was that he stood in front of her now – bared to the soul – and looking at her with the eyes of a child who had been abandoned by everyone he'd cared about.

"Miller—!" yelled Scotty from his corner, apparently throwing caution to the wind on the subject of keeping quiet, on seeing the sympathy that she had no doubt now swimming across her face. "The hell d'you think you're doing? This guy is a psycho, remember? Why in the hell are you tryin' to comfort him?"

Of course, she didn't have an answer for that. Maybe it was her maternal instincts, even keener than usual with the prospect of her own mortality and the recurring subject of her own daughter being raised. Maybe she was seeing something in Fitzpatrick now that didn't quite tally with the ruthless bastard who'd shot her and tried to drive Scotty insane. Maybe the blood loss and pain were finally getting to her and she'd wake up in a straitjacket, because no doubt the thoughts now in her head were beyond crazy. But she couldn't ignore them now that they'd surfaced, and could only continue to do what she did best. Scotty had given up on her, so she needed someone else to focus her attention on. Couldn't focus on herself – could _never_ focus on herself – so maybe this crap with Fitzpatrick was all inside her head, a defence mechanism brought on by her need to find someone to focus on. Or maybe he really was just a deeply confused and pathetic creature who sorely needed the kind of help that neither of them could offer. So, for just a moment, she let her eyes meet Scotty's, and tried to convey all that without uttering a word; whether it worked or not, she had no idea, but at least she had made that effort.

"Wasn't about you," she repeated, once again addressing Fitzpatrick. "Your mom wasn't trying to hurt you. Just… sometimes a person is in so much pain… death seems like the only relief."

Fitzpatrick leaned right in again, frowning. "Yeah?" he asked. If it hadn't been for the seemingly genuine puzzlement on his face, she would almost have believed he was baiting her. But she wanted to believe in some inherent goodness within him, if only to justify his imposed comparison with Veronica. She had to believe there was something worth saving deep within his deformed psyche because, if there wasn't, she really would have nothing left to focus on. Still, he continued brutally, "Like the kind of pain you're in?"

She stiffened, her body shivering even harder. "Told you…" she said, as evenly as she could, even as her daughter's distraught face swam into view of her mind's eye. "I'm _not_… gonna die."

Fitzpatrick sighed heavily, as if he'd been expecting that but nonetheless had been hoping for something else, and she could've sworn he looked truly sad. "That wasn't the question."

Somehow, she'd expected she wouldn't be allowed to get away with that. Finally, she allowed her eyes to drift closed once again, and drank in the depthless dark that engulfed her. Absorbed it, and prayed it would be enough to cover over the cold and the agony for long enough to answer his question – the question that he really was asking. It shouldn't have been as difficult as it was; she was the High Priestess in the Holy Church of Denial. If something got too real for her, she ignored it until it went away. That was who she was, and that was how she coped with things. She made wiseass remarks and sarcastic comments and threatened to castrate any overweight jackass who stole her donut… but she did not, under any circumstances, accept that bad things happened to her. If she pretended she was fine, dammit, then she was fine. So why couldn't she bring herself to take that approach with Fitzpatrick now? How hard was it to say '_mind your own business, jackass_'?

He'd gotten to her. She didn't know how, didn't even know what he'd done, but something about him had burrowed deeply inside her and latched onto her rawest maternal instinct. And, just like she could never lie to Veronica when she asked whether her mom's job really was as dangerous as people said, she couldn't bring herself to lie right here either. For the sake of her own shattered sense of self-preservation, she knew it was what she needed to do, that she needed to stay strong and focussed on sustaining that denial for her own sanity. But, of course, Kat Miller was the worst kind of amateur when it came to staying strong for herself.

"Yeah…" she heard herself whisper, at long last. "…like that kind of pain."

* * *

**TBC**

_A/N: Once again, this chapter ended up in a completely different place to the one I'd been taking it; apparently, I need to stop letting Kat into my brain, because she just runs wild and confuses the hell out of me. Next chapter should be more upbeat, assuming it's more well-behaved than this one._


	11. In Between

_A/N: As ever, many thanks for the feedback, it's greatly appreciated. And, 'cause I'm still a lazy bum who never gets around to reviewing other people's stuff, just to make the point again – oucellogal, much as I'm still loving the hell out of ETTFC as a whole... that small Lilly/Kat/Vera scene in chapter 16 absolutely made me go "eeeee!!". It's possible that I've become slightly obsessed with Vera/Donut/Kat as a OT3. ;-D  
_

**11.  
In Between**

* * *

"Damn… our pals are screwed up."

Lilly sighed. "We're not looking for gossip, Vera."

"Yeah, I get that. But still, _damn_."

Resisting the temptation to smack him upside the head, Lilly instead settled for grimacing in disdain and massaging her temples. Much as she knew it was a necessary evil, trawling through their missing colleagues' personnel files in search of carefully-buried trauma left a bitter taste in her mouth. It was the ultimate invasion of privacy, and she couldn't quite bring herself to believe that it was all for the best. She wanted to believe the team was a family, that they all knew each other so well, they wouldn't need to look through private information to dig up anything. She and Scotty, Vera and Miller, the boss and Will… they all had their ties, their connections, and those ran deeper than the job that had thrust them all together. It was sad that – even with all those bonds, close as family – they still hadn't managed to scratch the surface of one another.

Vera, of course, was taking the whole thing like a big joke. That had been inevitable, really, she thought. Giving the guy unrestricted access to Miller's personnel files was like handing a three-year-old the keys to a candy store. Oh, he no doubt remembered the importance of what they were doing; unprofessional as Nick Vera could be sometimes (or, well, all the time) he never quite allowed himself to completely lose focus of what they were shooting towards, and that was enough to keep her from threatening to cut off his caffeine supply until he started taking his job seriously. He just had a really immature way of showing it.

She'd expected that from him, though, so couldn't judge him too harshly. Nick Vera didn't handle stress particularly well, at least not personal stress. Professional stress, he would trample upon before it even had a chance to manifest itself. But personal stress, of the kind that meant actually standing up and realising that someone he cared about might be in trouble? That was the sort of thing that usually caused Nick Vera to have a mental breakdown. She'd seen that in him before, in his stubborn refusal to acknowledge the bare facts even when the entire office could see that his marriage was ending. He was like an overgrown teenager (and perhaps, Lilly mused, that was why he got on so well with Toni's kid; boys would be boys, after all), and that was an attitude that often left him taking the option to goof around instead of getting any real work done… because getting real work done would mean acknowledging the fact that people he cared about were hurt.

The man wasn't as insensitive as he wanted people to think he was, Lilly knew, but he was just too damn macho to accept that maybe he cared about other people. That would've hit him right in the ego, and he sure as hell wasn't masochistic enough to inflict that sort of embarrassment upon himself. She knew why he was the way he was; in their line of work, you did everything you could to keep yourself emotionally detached, even when the case was deeply personal (and she'd seen first-hand what happened to Nick when he did allow himself to get emotionally involved in a case, and couldn't blame him for not wanting to go back there again). Moreover, if she was being completely honest with herself – which was something she tried to avoid wherever possible – his blind optimism and refusal to consider the possibility for heartbreak was exactly the sort of attitude they were missing in the office at that moment. She just wished he'd drop the '_la la la, I can't hear you'_ crap and allow himself to be human. It wasn't like they didn't all know he was a big teddy bear inside anyway, so what harm could it do his precious ego to stand up once in a while and just admit he was worried?

"Well, who'd've thunk it," Vera was off and running again. "Looks like our little Narcotics detective has a history of donut-related violence." He shook his head sadly.

Using every last ounce of willpower at her disposal, Lilly fought the rising urge to slam her head repeatedly against the desk. "Nick…" she said, through gritted teeth. "I realise that having the chance to read through the personnel records of your arch-nemesis is a really big deal for you, but we're kinda on a clock. Y'know, the lives-could-be-at-risk kind of clock, so I'm really gonna need you to quit doing your one-upsmanship thing, and concentrate on finding something useful." Nonetheless, seeing the wounded look on his face, she couldn't quite keep herself from delivering the coup de grace. "Also? I didn't wanna have to be the one to tell you this… but nobody actually _cares_ which one of you is more of a badass." His mouth dropped open at that, as if she'd threatened to castrate him right there, and – in spite of her work ethic – she just had to smirk.

"That's not true," Jeffries interjected, the words marking his re-entrance to the office; Vera shot him a grateful look, and Lilly watched with some amusement as he physically restrained himself from diving on top of the donut box. "You can't say _no-one_ cares," Jeffries went on, sounding thoughtful as he dropped down into his chair. "Maybe _we_ don't, but the Minesweeper top score sure does."

Lilly never had the chance to warn him not to hit any more of Vera's sore spots if he wanted any amount of work to get done that decade, and barely even had time to bury her head in Scotty's record before Vera leaped to his feet with a mixture of righteous indignation and triumph. "A-ha!" he yelped, jabbing a finger at the unsuspecting Jeffries. "See, that's where you're wrong." He waved the file he'd been perusing under the other man's nose, and whipped it away again before Jeffries could even blink. "—See that? You see it? Two months' suspension for cheating at Solitaire! So you can take your top score and—"

"Nick…" Jeffries said, with a world-weary sigh. "That's maternity leave."

Lilly rolled her eyes at that comment. "He's been doing this for twenty minutes," she pointed out. "I'm one outburst away from asking the boss to fire his sorry ass."

Of course, she'd never be quite that cruel. She understood, though she was loathe to admit it, that this sort of thing was a few thousand miles outside of Vera's comfort zone. The research thing, that was always something he tried to avoid where possible. Like herself, he was the kind of cop who came alive in the interrogation room. Busting heads, taking names, forcing hands, getting confessions. That was his forte, and hers as well. Sitting down and doing the pain-in-the-ass paperwork? That wasn't why either of them had got into this job. Scotty, too – and the name struck a chord of anxiety and determination within her – had always twitched whenever Stillman had mentioned the need of an all-night study session. He was the kind of guy who always seemed to figure book-learning was just something that library geeks and academics had to do, and never quite seemed to understand why in the hell he was stuck in the office at midnight doing his homework like some kid while there were hardcore criminals lurking outside the door just begging to have the crap kicked out of them.

In fact, now that she thought about it, there weren't many cops she knew who did choose research over busting heads. Jeffries was the expert, really, with his decades of experience and his innate capacity for getting to the bottom of a fifty-foot paperwork pile; but even he was out of his comfort zone here, suddenly having to deal with people he knew – and people his research-handicapped colleagues knew a whole lot better than he did. Miller had always seemed at home with the research side, too; Lilly supposed her undercover days had taught her the importance of digging deep and knowing all the facts. Neither of them, ironically, were liable to be any good in this particular case, which brought the whole thing back to Square One… and, while Lilly really was (secretly) grateful for Vera's attempt at keeping the mood from sinking into irreparable depression, she couldn't help wishing he'd at least pretend to be taking the situation as seriously as it (when all was said and done) actually was. Not even for the duration, but just for a moment. Maybe she was showing her femininity a bit – and that right there was a thought that made her grimace – but she wanted to see that sensitivity he boasted about displaying with Toni. She wanted, just for a moment, to see Vera The Badass Cop disappear and Vera The Guy Who Loved His Friends show up. She was getting sick of being the only person on the whole damn team who actually _felt_ anything (and she knew, deep inside, that she was just as closed-off as the rest of them, and that they probably believed she was as cold and ruthless as they were, but that wasn't the point).

She wasn't looking for a group hug or anything; she just wanted some kind of confirmation that she wasn't the only one who believed they – as a team – had something really special going on. She was sitting there, reading through her partner's personnel file, and knowing without any doubt that he wouldn't mind one bit. That, even if there was some stuff in there he'd sooner be kept quiet, he trusted her enough to know she'd accept it and respect him for it. Of course, being that it was Scotty, maybe there would be some additional issues there (he never seemed to do anything by halves, and that always seemed to include beating himself up over things he could never have changed in a million years). But still the fact remained; whatever was on the file, whatever she found out about him, he wouldn't hate her for knowing it. And, especially given his innate desire to cover up all of his perceived failings (by which he invariably meant anything that had ever happened to go wrong while he was in the same country), that meant something. They weren't cops on the same team; they were family. Okay, so it was a screwed-up family of caffeine-addicted workaholics… but, dammit, it was family. And it was really beginning to irritate Lilly Rush that she seemed to be the only one who remembered that.

Effortfully keeping her mouth shut, she stood up and made her way over to the map they'd set up to help pinpoint potential locations. A small handful of multicoloured pins decorated the otherwise bland chart of what sometimes felt like the blandest city in the universe; red pins to show the places associated with Scotty, green to show those associated with Kat, with occasional yellows thrown in to flag those places that seemed most likely to be used (or, in some cases, those that were actually still standing). It was a pretty sad diagram, made all the more tragic by the fact that the majority of the pins were located dozens of miles away from each other. There wasn't a huge amount to work from (and Lilly couldn't help being slightly bemused by the fact that there were approximately twice as many 'Valens' pins as there were 'Miller' ones), but what there was had naturally positioned itself at opposing ends of the city; it would take them days to search them all.

Lilly couldn't help letting out a discontented breath as she stuck another pin into the map, before stifling her flash of uncharacteristic pessimism and turning to Vera. Finally, he seemed to have knuckled down, and was musing over some piece of useful information or another, with an intent sort of frown (or the closest approximation of one that he was capable of) playing across his forehead. He looked almost like a schoolboy who'd sworn blind he would never find a particular subject interesting, and then gotten caught up in it anyway. She almost felt bad for interrupting him. Almost, but not quite.

"Hey, tough guy," she said, keeping her voice relatively soft so as not to jolt him too brutally out of his reverie. "You just made poor Jeffries run out and buy the biggest box of donuts in Philly and you've not even opened it yet. What gives? You waiting for the rest of us to beg…?"

"Huh?" The sound was almost alien coming from his lips, so rare was it that he found himself caught in a position of genuine confusion. Beyond his initial reflex reaction to the arrival of the donut box, he hadn't so much as glanced in their direction (which Lilly now realised was the most uncharacteristic thing she'd ever seen him do), instead being caught up in firstly making unhelpful remarks about Miller's record and then in actually reading it. He eyed the box now, the hunger creeping visibly into his eyes.

"Donuts, Nick. You gonna open them, or what?"

"Oh." She saw him grimace, clearly forcing himself to look away, and she met his gaze with puzzlement. "Nah," he continued, finally, with an air of thoughtfulness that – like the self-control – was uncomfortably unsuited to him. "I was sorta thinkin'… maybe I should save 'em." He hung his head sheepishly. "I mean… I already owe her one, right? But, y'know, she's gonna find out I went through her records… and that's gotta be worth two. And… y'know… then there's all that Minesweeper stuff, she's probably still bitter about…" He shrugged, looking like someone who had confessed to hearing voices in his head, and who plainly understood that such was a confession that outed him as a crazy person. "I dunno. I just kinda figured…"

Lilly stared at him. "You've got the biggest box of donuts in Philly sitting in front of you…" she said, speaking very slowly to make absolutely certain she had all the facts completely right, "…and you're telling me that you, Nick Vera, want to save the whole damn thing for Miller?"

"No!" he cried, then caught himself. "Well, kinda. Maybe." He exhaled noisily, though Lilly couldn't figure out whether it was irritation directed at her for raising the subject, or annoyance with himself for being such a softie. Whatever his emotion, and in whatever direction it was aimed, Lilly couldn't have been happier; this was the Nick Vera she'd wanted to see. This was the guy who realised that maybe he did care about other people. Right then, even though neither of them were the 'group hug' types, she could've kissed him.

-

* * *

-

Vera, for his part, rolled his eyes at the big grin that now pasted itself across Lilly's face. Fine. So he'd opened up and admitted that maybe – just _maybe_ – he felt like a bit of a jerk… and that maybe – just _maybe_ – he wanted to make amends. So he'd taken the serious angle, and read through Miller's records like a good little detective, and he'd remembered that (however much they pissed each other off) arguing with her made the mundanity of Homicide a little more interesting. So he'd realised that maybe her time spent in Narcotics hadn't been all kittens and flowers, and maybe she'd gone through hell on the job once or twice. So what? It was just a box of freakin' donuts. It wasn't like he was gonna propose. What was the big deal, anyway?

For all those thoughts running unspoken through his mind, they didn't stop Lilly staring at him. "What?" he asked, eventually. "You tellin' me, if you'd pissed off Valens before he went out, you wouldn't be buying him a box of donuts to make amends for when he gets back?" He shook his head. "Hell, you would've bought the entire bakery, wouldn't ya?" He smirked knowingly as the expression on her face shifted as she thought about it. "We all know he's your boy, Lil. And I don't mean that in a sleazy office romance kinda way. I'm just sayin'… if you thought he was mad at you right now, you'd bring down the sun to do right by him."

Lilly shrugged, a tiny half-smile plucking at the corners of her lips, and Vera knew he'd made his point. The dynamic duo of Rush & Valens was the single closest partnership he'd ever seen, and he'd seen a lot of cop pairings during his career. They made no secret of their closeness, just like he and Miller made no secret of their clashes; sometimes (though he would deny this if questioned), he envied them for that. He loved himself, for the most part, in particular his trick for being the guy who could play the fool in any situation and still come across as Detective Kickass, but sometimes he couldn't help wondering how it would feel to be in Lilly's shoes. To be the one that people expected some degree of compassion from. To be the one who could save a whole box of donuts for a missing colleague without getting hit by all those '_wow, he finally lost it'_ glances.

For all of Lilly's newfound understanding, Jeffries wasn't so quick to show his appreciation of the kinder and gentler Nick Vera. "This better be one of those jokes you make," he grumbled, "because if I queued for twenty minutes to get a box of donuts I'm not even allowed to eat, I swear…"

Lilly was back in her seat, eyes once again wandering the file in front of her. "C'mon, Will…" she said, with the air of someone who was only really paying half-attention to her surroundings. "Vera's doing the first nice thing in his entire life. Our little boy's all grown up. Don't wreck it for everyone."

"It's not the _first_ nice thing!" Vera heard himself shouting in indignation. "It's just the first nice thing you jackasses have been witness to. I do _lots_ of nice things. Just ask Toni."

Jeffries shuddered at that, holding up his hands in mock-defeat. "How 'bout I stop complaining about the donuts if you _don't_ regale us with stories about you and Toni?" he offered, idly playing with a couple of loose papers; Vera silently prayed that no more Origami would be forthcoming. "I don't think I could stomach it if you decided to be Mr Nice Guy and Mr Sensitive Boyfriend, both on the same day."

"It's so sad," Vera commented melodramatically. "Some guys been in the game longer than any of us can remember, but they turn into scared little girls at the sight of a fellow cop being a real man." He smirked, and quickly buried his head in the file, neatly avoiding any rebuttal that Jeffries might've thrown out by raising a hand to silence him before he had the chance to speak, and promptly adding, "uh-uh… Detective Vera is working on a very important case. Leave a message after the beep, and he'll get back to you."

The next few minutes unfurled in relative silence, and Vera once again found himself absorbed into the file he was reading. He had to admit, it was weird scouring files and records for clues as if they were regular everyday victims or suspects, and trying to pretend like it wasn't two of his colleagues – hell, his _friends_ – that he was researching. Sure, he talked a good talk. Sure, a few days after all this, he'd no doubt be throwing all of his newly-discovered details about The Secret Life Of Miller right back in her face. Sure, he kind of wished he was the only cop in the office that day so he could run through and do the same with Scotty's records too ('cause he was nothing if not thorough when it came to gleaning office gossip). But, when all was said and done, he was trying really goddamn hard to keep the friends whose privacy he was invading and the victims whose situation he was researching completely separate in his mind. He wasn't the guy who handled serious emotions very well, and – brief moment of compassion towards his absent sparring partner aside – he wasn't the guy who knew how to deal with those emotions if they ever did crop up. He was the guy who made inappropriate jokes and did his job to the best of his ability, but never sank deeply enough into any situation to require actually dealing with it.

It probably helped a lot, he mused with a wry smile at himself, that there was seldom more than thirty seconds' personal thinking time in the office; the thought was punctuated neatly by the arrival of Stillman, striding with a distinct sense of purpose out of his office. The look on his face said clearly that he believed his crack squad of super-sleuths had been given more than enough time to pull up a list of possible locations, and Vera didn't doubt that – ready or not – it was crunch time for them. About time, too.

"Anything?" Stillman asked, sharply, adopting that well-known tone of voice that suggested any and all foolishness was to end now, and they were to remember (without any shadow of question) that they were cops who had a job to do. Even as he spoke, his eyes were on the pin-spattered map, taking in every last detail in order to further shorten any explanation that Lilly or Vera would offer him.

Lilly climbed to her feet; much as Vera wanted to be the one to take the credit, he supposed it was only fair that she do all the talking. After all, the map thing had been her idea (though he rather suspected she'd only suggested it in the first place so she could play with the mountain of pins that had accumulated on her desk over the past couple of weeks for no apparent reason and seemingly from absolutely nowhere). "What you see is what you get, Boss," she said, picking up on his observation. She took the time to explain the colour-coding system, and left the rest to the older man's more than capable imagination to piece together.

For his part, Vera found himself also eyeing the map, this time with a touch of sadness that he couldn't quite keep from creeping into him. The red pins – Scotty's pins, more ample in number than any other colour on the board – flashed at him, neon like traffic lights, demanding his attention. But it was the green pins – Kat's pins, the ones he'd put down himself, far fewer in number – that actually got it. If anyone had asked him whether he was worried about her, he would've laughed in their face and told them that nobody 'worried' about Kat Miller, least of all him. If they'd asked whether he missed her, he would've laughed twice as hard and told them she was the biggest pain in the ass he'd ever met. And, if he was being honest with himself, he would mean both those things, and the laughter too. But nonetheless, something was drawing him to her pins, and to his feelings of— well, of _what_, exactly? sure as hell not remorse, and definitely not guilt. But he was certainly feeling something, and it was something he was trying really hard not to feel, because (whatever the hell it was) he was pretty sure it could be defined as a 'serious emotion', and that was exactly the kind of thing he really didn't deal with.

"You wanna hit the yellow ones first, Boss," he heard himself say, even though he was sure Lilly had already gone into that during her own explanation, and the irritation on Stillman's face reflected the fact, but Vera really had to hear himself talk right then, to take his mind off the darker thoughts. "They're the most promising targets," he elaborated. "Places that got the most exposure, media attention, that sort of stuff. Someone needs to find out our guys' past haunts, they're the places it'd be easy to dig up."

Stillman nodded thoughtfully, but refrained from telling them they'd done a good job. Vera understood why; when it involved members of his team, the boss expected no less than 300 on every step, and frankly had no intention of congratulating those left behind for giving only what their missing colleagues deserved. "Okay," he said finally, eyes never once leaving the map. "We call in favours, pull in as many guns as we can, and we start hitting these spots; as many as we can as fast as we can. Turn these places upside down if we need to, 'till we find 'em." There was a ruthlessness in his voice and a hardness in his eyes that Vera had only ever seen a handful of times before. "Three teams, and one of you is gonna be at the front of each one; when we find 'em, we're gonna make damn sure there's at least one friendly face there to say 'welcome home'."

Lilly and Jeffries were already moving to carry out the orders, grabbing the phone and writing up plans. Vera, for his part, wavered a moment, frowning at the steely glint in the boss's eye. "Pullin' out all the stops on this one, Boss," he observed quietly, hoping the simple statement of fact would help to bring Stillman down from his impassioned cloud. "Calling in a lot of resources…" He grimaced, unable to stop the words that followed. "And a lot of 'em are goin' out on hits that ain't even gonna amount to anything."

Stillman fixed him square in the eye. "We're a family, Nick," he said, with a kindness that was almost overshadowed by his stark determination. "You pull out everything you got when it's family."

* * *

**TBC**

_A/N: I realise this whole section was rather more vague than it could/should have been… but I kind of totally suck at remembering details most of the time, and didn't want to trample on the toes of canon by presuming too much that I couldn't double- or triple-check. Hope it came across as semi-legible, anyway._


	12. Bleed

_A/N: Yet again, many thanks for all the feedback. Extra love for oucellogal, for A) the continuing awesomeness that is ETTFC, and B) the generosity of pimping this one in there, which is hugely appreciated. Also, to Spuffyshipper – many thanks for the continuing reviews; hopefully this one's got enough Angsty!Scotty to keep you entertained for a little while. ;-)_

**12.  
Bleed**

* * *

Scotty was finally beginning to appreciate the idea of being there in a strictly observational capacity. Thousands of destructive thoughts were spinning through his mind, and thousands more following close behind, and it was almost a blessing in disguise that he wasn't able to give vent to them; all the more so, he couldn't help thinking with a touch of sadness, given the fact that no small number of those destructive were now suddenly directed towards Kat. It wasn't enough for his psyche, apparently, to be hating Fitzpatrick (with the sort of passion that could've made him a homicide suspect himself if he wasn't chained to the wall) and himself (with the sort of passion that no doubt would have made him a suicide case if he wasn't chained to the wall); now, he was also directing that inner darkness at his injured colleague as well. It was a Full House of hatred.

He'd kept his mouth pointedly shut ever since she'd decided to play the sympathetic mother figure to Fitzpatrick's psychosis, and had instead concentrated his efforts into directing some of that rage inside him right at her. She knew damn well how Scotty felt about Fitzpatrick, how the man's father had almost destroyed him (vicariously, sure, but nonetheless), and how desperately he wanted to be free from those goddamn handcuffs and punch the guy so hard he'd hit the ground and never get back up again. She knew all about that – even if she hadn't before, she sure as hell did now – and yet she still took it upon herself to make nice with the guy who had shot her in the leg as some twisted act of vengeance against Scotty for doing the right thing. If he'd been in a more charitable mood, maybe he would've attributed her insanity to the loss of sense that inevitably came with bleeding half to death over the course of several hours, but frankly he was long past charity.

It fuelled his inhospitable mindset, as well, that he couldn't help finding the whole concept easier to deal with if he was angry with her. There was no doubt in his mind that she was going to die (hell, she'd practically admitted to the bastard Fitzpatrick that she'd endured so long by now she practically _wanted_ to die) and that she was going to die in great pain, and the thought of facing that if he didn't find a reason to hate her was more than he could endure. It probably didn't help that he still believed – more and more with each passing minute – that this whole screwed-up mess was his goddamn fault. It was bad enough that she was going to die because of him, but worse even than that he knew that, through all the guilt and the rage and the grief, he'd be the one – as the sole witness – who would have to clean up the whole goddamn mess afterwards.

She deserved his hatred, he told himself, even though he knew damn well it wasn't true. For as long as she'd been a member of their team, Kat Miller had prided herself on her intuition and her observational skills, and even Scotty had to admit she'd seldom disappointed on that score. But, for someone with so many supposed talents in the art of seeing the unseen, she wasn't so bright at seeing what was right in front of her. Maybe she saw something inside Fitzpatrick, something that Scotty had missed (and, he couldn't deny, given his bias against the man it was entirely possible)… but that was no excuse for treating him like someone who deserved sympathy. Had she forgotten, when she was confessing her pain to him, that he was the asshole who'd caused it? Was she conveniently oblivious to the fact that his entire family had made Scotty's life hell? Or was she just so stupid that she really thought everyone in the whole goddamn world deserved another chance?

He'd tried to avoid looking at her, too. That part wasn't so easy, given their relative positions, short of staring at the ground and not looking up even for a moment. But the problem was, the more he found himself forced through no means of his own to look at her, the harder it was to keep his anger and his righteous fury pointed at her. With every slight glance he paid her, he was reminded of how fragile she was and how much closer to death she was creeping with every laboured breath. He wanted to feel for her, then. He wanted to extinguish the flame of agony that burned so deeply in her by now that he couldn't help wondering if it would ever leave. He wanted to absorb her pain and leave her free, enduring it himself if need be as punishment for causing this disaster in the first place. He wanted to take every bad thing she must be feeling – all reflected a hundredfold in her bright eyes – and absorb it into himself, to bring them both that revenant of peace. And, while he was feeling all those things, and wishing so passionately that he could be the one suffering in her place, it was almost impossible for the rational part of his mind to remember that it was supposed to be angry at her.

"Won't make it better."

Angered by the sharp intrusion into his thoughts as she fought to make her wavering voice carry the short distance between them, he dropped his gaze fast to the floor and made a pointed effort to ignore what she'd said. Yeah, staring at the ground and not looking up even for a moment, that was a much smarter way of going about things; it kept him from seeing the strain on her face, and gave him leeway to pretend he hadn't heard her faltering voice as she spoke to him. He wasn't listening, and he couldn't hear. Besides, it was none of her goddamn business anymore. She'd forfeited her chance to impose her self-righteousness on him. She'd given up her right to play the divine intervention card over his inner demons. She was no better than Fitzpatrick, seeing things that weren't there and feeling the wrong emotions towards the wrong people. Let her ramble on at him about things that would and wouldn't make it better; what the hell did she know?

"Scotty." Obviously, she wasn't about to give up. That would've been too much to ask for. "It won't—" Just for a moment, it sounded like she'd cut herself off in realisation of how futile it was to try and convince him of anything; on closer inspection of the sharpness with which she'd broken off her sentence, he realised she'd simply lost the capacity for speech, and the silence that followed drew itself out almost to shattering point before she found her strength again, and – in a voice that could barely be described as a voice at all – she neatly changed tack. "You… you gotta make peace."

The repetition of his former point was more than Scotty's vow of silence could handle, and he felt deeply grateful for the handcuffs which now prevented him from crossing the room and shaking the hell out of her. "I _know_ you ain't tellin' me what I already told you," he said, voice low in a dangerous snarl. "I _know_ you ain't throwin' my own damn advice back at me. I know you ain't that stupid." He raised his eyes and allowed them to meet hers, drinking in the pain behind them and reminding himself again and again that he'd come to terms with this long before now and, if she wanted to diffuse her own hopeless denial back onto him, then she was more of an idiot than even Vera could imagine. "I made my goddamn peace. Get your own."

She shook her head, and the gesture almost ended her. She choked, and he could see that the only thing keeping her from bringing up whatever scant substance remained inside her was the stubborn refusal to give him any more gossip about her weakness to share with the rest of the team. Her eyes rolled back so far that he could see nothing but the whites of them for a few long seconds, and he fought the temptation to call her name and pull her back once again before she could black out. Her fate, whatever the hell it was, was in her own hands now; he would have no further part in its course.

"Not… not with… _me_… you jackass…" she answered when she'd regained control of herself (and it suddenly took all of Scotty's self-discipline to keep from being impressed by the simple fact that she'd managed this at all). She took a deep breath, crying out softly when it hurt to exhale, before fixing him with a steady look. Even then, the power behind those eyes was frightening. "With _yourself_."

The elaboration should have quelled his anger, but it only served to fuel it. Much as he was loathe to admit it, Scotty Valens was beyond help. His thoughts had been so embroiled in darkness and despair for so long that there was nothing left within him but anger and bitterness. At himself, of course, for being the cause of all this misery (and so many others, which had nothing to do with this one, but all of which nonetheless resurfaced every time he tried to pause for breath). At the bastard Fitzpatrick for laying the blame on him for the one goddamn thing he'd done right, for tainting that one moment of purity and joy he'd created in all his worthless existence, and for forcing him to feel guilty even for that. At Kat, not just for letting her maternal instincts rule her head on the subject of Fitzpatrick, but also for letting _him_ be the one she finally admitted her suffering to; Scotty had been right there, he'd been the foil to her pain the whole way, and yet it had been Fitzpatrick that she'd opened up to. There was so much rage and fury swimming inside him right now, all aimed in every conceivable direction, refracted and twisted like light in a prism, he needed to focus it somewhere, and – as far as he was concerned – by her presumptuous take on his emotion, she had just volunteered herself as a viable target.

"Right," he growled. "Yeah. 'Cause you know so damn much about everything, don'tcha?" He saw the sadness in her eyes, but didn't stop. "Kat Miller, queen bitch super-cop. You don't know a damn thing about me, so don't make like you know it all. What goes on inside my head ain't none of your goddamn business an' I swear, if you don't knock off this 'holier than thou' BS, you ain't gonna need that bastard over there puttin' his goddamn bullets in you, 'cause I'll finish you myself." He allowed himself to pause there, catching his breath from the outburst, which was the worst mistake he could've made. With the oxygen came the realisation of what he was saying and what he meant came flooding into his mind. He wasn't mad at her because her irritating assumptions were off-base; he was mad at her because they weren't. "Get the hell outta my head."

Kat smiled, a flicker so faint he almost missed it, but she was spared the effort finding it within her faltering body to venture a reply, by Fitzpatrick's intervention. The man stepped down from his barstool (whereupon he'd perched himself once again after ending his previous discussion), and stepped dangerously towards Scotty. If he was honest, he was rather grateful for the man's sudden interest in him; before he'd hated himself and long before he'd even thought to hate Kat, he'd hated this bastard. He could deal with him; hell, he couldn't wait to deal with him. These thoughts strengthening both his resolve and his rage, he allowed his eyes to harden all the more as they met those of his captor, and he didn't flinch or recoil even as Fitzpatrick leaned right into his face. "Thought we already talked about this," he began, speaking very slowly. "You're here in a strictly observational capacity. Are them words too big for you? You don't talk. If you talk, she gets hurt."

For a moment, Scotty didn't reply. His eyes wandered beyond Fitzpatrick, almost through him, and fixed once again on Kat. She returned his gaze with one that told him she understood and forgave every moment of bitterness he felt towards her, if only he would do the same to those he felt towards himself. He couldn't grant her that, though, and he felt the anger at both of them rise once again at the mere prospect of doing so. She who tried so damn hard to make him look within himself and see something other than the man he knew he was – the man who caused nothing but pain and loss and suffering wherever the hell he went and however the hell hard he tried – and he who wished, even now and in spite of himself, wished so desperately to believe her. There was nothing more for him than this, he knew, and he hated her for making him want to believe otherwise. It was a tragic realisation for him, and one that he'd met with every resistance he could muster; but it had won eventually, and he hated himself for letting her be the one to continue fighting it. In physical terms, maybe she was the one was bleeding to death and seeking a reprieve from him… but inside his head, he was the one watching his own life-essence flow away while she stood strong and fought the onslaught that still threatened him. Just as she was dying on the outside, he was dying on the inside, and he didn't believe either could help the other now. It ripped him apart, but it was a simple fact, and one that – unlike her – he could not fight. And maybe it was the realisation that she could (and indeed _was_) still fighting both the physical and the psychological on his behalf while he lacked the strength to fight either… maybe it was that which caused the final flare of fury to surge within him as he turned back to Fitzpatrick with a resolve that was more unshakeable than anything he'd mustered so far.

"Yeah," he said. "So do it, then." He tilted his head in Kat's direction, noting sadly that she made no motion or sound to contradict him. "She ain't got nothin' left in her. Hurtin' so bad that death's the only relief… ain't that what you said, Miller?" He didn't wait for an answer, knowing none would come, and kept his focus entirely on Fitzpatrick as he went on. "So, what're ya waitin' for? Put her outta her damn misery. I sure as hell ain't gonna stand in your way."

-

* * *

-

On hearing Scotty's words, Kat had to fight to keep her eyes open; it would've been so easy to just let them close once again (and to keep them that way this time), but she wanted to see this out with both eyes open wide and unblinking. Finally, after what had felt like an eternity, they had reached breaking point… and, one way or the other, she was gonna make damn sure to down with dignity.

There was no apology in Scotty's face, and no sympathy, even as he finished speaking. He wouldn't look at her, and – much as she wanted to meet his eyes right then and have that blessing of contact in those last moments – she supposed she could understand that. Looking at her would undo him, just as thinking of Veronica right then would've undone her. When all was said and done, in spite of the hardness in his tone, he believed he was offering them both a tragic kind of solace. He'd watched her suffer, watched her bleed, and he'd made peace with the eventuality of her death (even if she herself still refused to do the same). He'd seen the pain deepen the lines in her face and destroy the light behind her eyes, and he'd heard her tell Fitzpatrick – the words having come against her own will, but come nonetheless – just how deeply that pain went. He'd known, whatever happened and however it happened, Fitzpatrick would make damn sure it would be his fault, and his conscience had finally exhausted itself beyond repair. He knew – and she knew that he knew – that to continue playing the good little boy for her sake would only extend her suffering, until the blood loss and the cold and the depthless screaming pain finally took her, anyway… and, even then, it would still be his fault. At least this way, he could use those words, '_put her out of her misery'_, and allow himself the bittersweet belief that it was euthanasia.

It was what it was. Even now, with her fate decided, her thoughts remained focussed on him. His turmoil, his inner conflict, the agonies he must be enduring. To stop and think of herself, even for a moment, would remind her that – as loudly as she protested to herself and everyone else that she was not going to die – she would, right then, have done anything to just end the pain… and that was a depth of surrender she was not willing to face, even with her last breath. It was purely selfish, however deep the hurt went, to place her own relief as her highest priority when she had a daughter whose happiness should have meant more to her than any relief or comfort in all the world. That knowledge, that memory of her daughter's face, should've been enough to keep her enduring forever, to stop her wishing the end just to cease her own pain; it should have been all the strength and resolve she'd need to overcome any amount of pain or cold or blood. It should have been enough to sustain her. She wanted it to be enough, wanted the prospect of seeing her little girl become a woman to keep her biting down through the pain. She wanted to believe that her words to Fitzpatrick had been sympathetic lies… but they weren't, and no amount of 'should-have-been's could keep her from wanting it to be over.

And so, in true Kat Miller style, she denied all her own conflict and focussed on Scotty's. He still wouldn't look at her, but it was enough that she could look at him. His face remained stony, even as Fitzpatrick turned away (the man himself bearing an expression of gleeful surprise, clearly having not expected quite so ruthless a reaction from his prisoner), but his eyes were hollow. She'd learned a long time ago that a person's eyes could tell stories that the rest of the body couldn't, and often uninhibited by any amount of poker-faced control. Even as he tried his best to keep them hard and expressionless, they were – as the old cliché said – the windows to his very soul, and she saw within him the telltale signs that he was being shattered from the very soul. He was a man automatically disposed to blame himself for the misfortune of others, even when he'd had nothing to do with it (admitted, she knew far less of his history of self-flagellation than the rest of the team undoubtedly did, but she knew enough to recognise his tendency towards that trait), but to now be the one openly condemning a friend to death? Even the most self-righteous person in the world would have a hard time feeling guiltless right now, but for Scotty Valens, it had to be the ultimate incarnation of his worst self-imposed nightmares.

Fitzpatrick came to a stop halfway between the two of them, his eyes raking once again over Kat. "You ain't got nothin' to say to him?" he asked, hopefully. "Guy just signed your death warrant an' didn't even ask your permission? C'mon, girlie, you gotta have _somethin'_ to say 'bout that."

Not trusting herself to shake her head or shrug, Kat made no outward motion, but also refused to satisfy the man by tearing her gaze from Scotty to look at him. "Valens is a… smart boy," she said calmly. "He… he knows what he's… doing." She mustered a smile, knowing that he wouldn't see it unless he deigned to look at her (which he still would not do), but allowing the gesture to strengthen her a little. "Besides… everyone knows… tellin' him he's being a jackass… only makes him more positive… that he's right…"

"That's 'cause I usually _am_ right," Scotty muttered from where he was staring pointedly at a nonexistent spot on the wall. His expression didn't change at all, and the voice behind the words remained strong, but nonetheless there was an unspoken and intangible veil of tears over him as he spoke. She had no idea how she even knew it was there, but she did, and she allowed the feeling to run through her.

Really, she wanted to respond. Just to say 'yeah', to let him know she understood what was going through his mind (even now), and– in a twisted sort of way – to thank him. She wanted to say anything, connect with him somehow, find a way of forcing him to meet her eyes. It was the least he could give her; she was giving him his peace of mind, letting him sacrifice her to keep himself from dissolving completely, and all she wanted was to have a familiar pair of eyes to look into as she went. But, of all the possible words she could've uttered to bring about that reaction from him, she couldn't voice any of them. A tidal wave of pain and cold had begun to rain down upon her, and all of her energies were expended in keeping her head up above it.

By the time the wave passed (she couldn't figure out whether the pulses were getting longer and harder to endure, or whether she was just so exhausted by them that they simply felt that way), she had lost her train of thought entirely, and realised with a dull sense of the inevitable that Fitzpatrick was now cocking his gun at her for what felt like the millionth time. At least, she thought dimly, her death right now would bring with it the certainty that she'd never have to worry about taking any more goddamn bullets. God, she was sick of taking bullets. Finally, she pulled her eyes from Scotty and faced Fitzpatrick with a smile.

"C'mon… tough guy," she whispered. "bring it on… home."

Even though she'd sworn to keep her eyes open and meet her fate head-on, and upheld that promise by not blinking even once from the moment she made that last stand and readied herself for what was to come, she nonetheless found herself unable to figure out what happened next.

In the next instant, her senses went into overdrive with the exertion of reacting to the thousand things that were happening, all of which seemed to contradict each other, and none of which seemed to actually make any sense. She heard the explosion of the gunshot (a sound that was, by now, far too familiar), but her eyes insisted that Fitzpatrick hadn't pulled the trigger. She felt the roar of pain course through her, but knew she hadn't been hit, and – even as the reverberation from the shot still echoed in her ears – she couldn't see the goddamn bullet. Problem was, the pain was almost crippling, and it took the vast majority of her faculties to deal with that, leaving precious little left to react to the chaos that was suddenly happening all around her.

She hadn't been hit. That was the important part, and the part she needed to keep reminding herself of. The pain she was feeling? It was just one more in the seemingly endless run of waves and pulses of agony that refused to leave her alone. She hadn't been shot again, and she wasn't about to die. She was Kat Miller and she was damn near invulnerable. But, unfortunately (and through the pain and the cries that forced their way past her lips despite her best efforts to keep them silent), the realisation that she'd not been hit wasn't enough to quell her curiosity, and she now found herself glancing around in almost childlike hope of some kind of explanation as to where the hell the shot had come from if it really hadn't been fired by Fitzpatrick.

The confusion of her sensory overload faded in due time. She could barely see, but she was aware of enough to realise the that room was flooding now with alien shapes and strange figures, and the cocking of weapons (a sound that, once again, she was woefully familiar with at this point) sounding off from all directions. It was all she could do to get into her head the notion of where to look – that answer being '_everywhere, all at once'_ – much less to actually try and put this into practise, and she felt herself almost double over in pain and nausea at the slightest effort to do so. She wanted to look around, to see who was pointing which weapons at whom, but she couldn't. Being too far beyond any kind of strenuous motion, it was all she could do to keep her eyes focussed at all (and barely focussed at all even then), let alone focussed on something specific.

In the distant background, she could hear someone telling someone else (probably Fitzpatrick, she reasoned) to put his goddamn weapon down (the 'goddamn' part was theirs, not hers). And, all of a sudden carrying him right into the very front of everything that was happening, she could hear Scotty yelling at the same someone to shoot, _shoot_, shoot the goddamn son of a bitch, and she had to keep her eyes from rolling all the way back in her head, just for long enough to shout out something vaguely resembling a warning, even as she felt herself spiral down. And she knew she hadn't been shot and that she was alive – just like she'd always said she would be – and that all of a sudden there were too many people crowding into the room… and what little part of her that could still think knew that these things were good, but she couldn't see and her brain was filled with noise. She could hardly breathe, but she knew she had to hold on, still, and – though every muscle and nerve and bone and vein within her body strove to betray her – she heard herself scream, "don't shoot!"

A deafening silence descended over the room – or, at least, she thought it did; the room was blurring out of focus, and she couldn't be sure of anything. It didn't last (she was dimly aware of knowing it wouldn't, even before it had begun), and Scotty was shouting again, his voice clear and fragile as crystal as he ranted that she was delirious and didn't know how much danger she was in… which would've made her laugh until she cried, had she been capable of doing so because, even now through the confusion and the vertigo and oh dear god the _pain_, she knew beyond all doubt that hers was the lucid voice and his the crazy one.

Of course he wanted the enigmatic someone to shoot Fitzpatrick; it was what he'd wanted since before she'd even regained consciousness. For a million reasons, all of which were probably so completely valid they cut down to his very soul, he wanted the bastard dead; Kat wished she could feel disgust at his ruthlessness, but she couldn't. She knew what they'd both been through, and knew that it was Scotty – far more than she herself, bullet wound be damned – who had every right to want the man dead. Maybe, under different circumstances, she could've supported him in his vengeful fury. But, right now, her mind was drowning in her own perception of Fitzpatrick as the broken and confused little boy who had been shattered and twisted by events that – while they sure as hell weren't Scotty's fault – weren't his own either. And, through all the violence and the pain and the trauma for both Scotty and herself, still he hadn't yet done enough for her to condone _that_.

"Don't… shoot." Her voice carried, and she heard it as if from a great distance away, matching his in clarity and urgency but bearing also a calmness that his had lacked.

And suddenly, she wasn't alone shouting at a room full of alien shadows, because someone was crouching beside her; she could hear the hum as they talked to her, but couldn't make out the words. It didn't matter what was being said, though; there was a gentleness in the voice that comforted her far more than any words could've done, and a softness too in the arms that now enveloped her in a circle of protection. It was Lilly. It had to be Lilly, because none of the boys were that gentle, and she felt herself melt helplessly into the comfort of that embrace and whispered – hardly aware of the fact that she could still speak, much less that the words were still falling unchecked from her lips – over and over, "don't shoot, don't shoot, don't shoot."

Lilly shifted beside her, and Kat knew she was looking towards Scotty. She knew, too, exactly what the other woman would see in his face: hatred, determination, fury. No doubt, he was looking at them both now with a gaze that said (and that made it unwaveringly clear that he was not bluffing) '_if you don't kill this bastard, you sure as hell better not loose these cuffs 'cause I'll do it myself'_. She pressed herself more tightly against Lilly as the image burned itself onto her mind's eye, and – before she had the chance to stop it – heard a keening wail escape her lips. The sound was low and small, but it carried in it all the cold and the fear and the screaming wrenching pain, and was almost primal in its rawness… and she knew, even as she fought to silence herself, that the cry had made Lilly's decision for her, and felt that resolve tightening both their muscles.

"Don't…" she whispered, persistent to the end. "Don't."

"Shh," was the reply, close to her ear. "Don't worry about it. Just rest." Kat buried her face in Lilly's coat, trembling like a child as the blonde pulled her closer, and waited.

* * *

**TBC**


	13. Goodnight, Good Guy

_A/N: Once again, many thanks for the feedback. I know I say this at the beginning of every chapter, but it really does mean a lot._

**13.  
Goodnight, Good Guy**

* * *

"Dammit, Lil, what in the hell are you waitin' for?"

There was an urgency, almost mania, in Scotty's voice and demeanour that Lilly had never heard before. She'd always believed that – more than anyone else on the team – she knew the real Scotty Valens. The very best of him, the very worst of him, even those parts of him she wanted to pretend she'd never seen (in much the same way, she had to admit, that he probably knew the real Lilly Rush, or a closer approximation to that person than any of the others could claim). So maybe it was lucky for all of them that she was the one here now, instead of Vera or Jeffries who would've no doubt just taken his eccentricity as a result of being chained to a pipe for way too many hours. Not being so quick to dismiss it herself, Lilly could see the depth behind his violent responses without even trying, and knew that there was something darker inside him.

"It's over, Scotty," she said, quietly. The initial chaos from her entrance (along with the SWAT boys, who weren't exactly the picture of quietude at the best of times) had since faded, leaving her no reason to raise her voice, and no desire to electrify the situation any further. "You're out of danger." She kept talking, hoping to connect with him through the sound of her voice – if not the words themselves, which were simply reiterating a situation he could see perfectly well for himself. "We've got him, okay?"

"No, it ain't okay!" he snarled back, features twisted into those of a caged animal. "You don't get this guy. This guy gets _you_, unless you stick a bullet in his brain." He didn't flinch as he spoke, and didn't avert his eyes, fixing her square in the eye to leave no suggestion that he was bluffing. The look sent a chill down Lilly's spine, and she felt Kat huddle even closer to her (if that was even possible at this point) in reaction to it. Still, he was Scotty, and she knew him. She wasn't going to back down, here.

"It's _over_, Scotty," she repeated firmly. "We're not vigilantes, we're cops. We do our jobs. We don't decide who lives and who dies." Even as she spoke, she knew she wouldn't convince him; hell, she hardly sounded convinced herself. She'd heard Kat's pained outcry, primitive and inhuman; she could feel her now, cold as ice and shaking so hard it was all Lilly could do to keep hold on her. Yeah, she'd see the guy dead for that, in a heartbeat if she could. They were family. Kat was still new, sure, but she was still part of it… and seeing her right then, so weakened by so much pain, had almost destroyed every moral instinct within Lilly Rush, leaving her burned alive by the desire to see justice done. But she was stronger than that, as she knew she'd have to be, and as Scotty would have to be too. They had priorities, and bloody vengeance wasn't one of them.

For their part, the SWAT boys were beginning to shift uneasily at both the delay and the situation in general. Half a dozen lethal weapons pointed at the guy's chest, and yet he stood there looking for all the world like he had a fist full of aces. Lilly couldn't blame the boys for looking a little unnerved at that, being no doubt more than accustomed to their victims begging for forgiveness within a moment or two of their being apprehended. There _was_ something not quite right about this one, even she couldn't deny it, but it wasn't enough for cold-blooded murder. Whatever he'd done, to either of her colleagues, it couldn't be enough to justify that, and her arms tightened protectively around Kat – still whispering those pleas into her coat – just to reassert the simple fact. Wanting a guy dead wasn't reason enough to do it. She had to remember that.

Scotty was still struggling wildly against his bonds, and Lilly nodded carefully at one of the SWATs to make a move at de-cuffing him. He obeyed, with obvious reluctance at the idea of lowering his weapon (in spite of the five others that remained solidly trained on the same guy), and Lilly slowly returned her attention to the task at hand, reaching into her pocket in a slow bid to retrieve her cellphone.

Reacting to the shift, Kat took the cue to withdraw from her hold, and rested her head against the nearest wall as she sat back. Lilly waited until she'd finished dialling, before taking the moment allowed her by the infuriating dial tone to study the other woman's condition more fully. The pain, the exhaustion, the trauma… they all painted a clear picture across her every feature, lining her face so much more deeply than it had been the last time Lilly had seen her, and it struck like a blow to see it. Still, beneath all that, the eyes still shone. So the light was faded and wan, of course it was, but it wasn't gone and that was what mattered. Their wise-ass firecracker was still in there, and that was the only thing that mattered right at that moment. "Hang in there," she heard herself say, and Kat's face eased into a tired smile. "We'll be out of here in no time."

"Hope so…" Kat replied. "This place… is a mess." Lilly chuckled ironically, all the while counting rings on the other end of the phone-line and cursing silently to herself.

In actual fact, it only took six and a half rings before the unmistakeable click of a pickup replaced them, but in her current state of mind, that was six and a half rings' worth of unforgivably wasted time. This fact she would've been more than happy to point out to the recipient of the phone-call, but for the fact that he happened to be the guy who could fire her sorry ass if she back-talked too much. So, instead, she cut to the chase in true Lilly Rush style, and didn't even pause for a hello. "Boss. We got 'em."

"_Good._" Stillman's voice was guarded and stoic, which was exactly what Lilly had expected of him; however great the news she had, he was still the boss, and it was his duty to remain the calm voice of reason in any situation. "_Good,_" he repeated."_You got everything under control?"_

"Yeah." She hoped beyond hope that he wouldn't catch the dubiousness that she couldn't quite keep from letting slip into her voice. Scotty, freed from his shackles, was now lunging at his former captor, howling and struggling against the SWAT boy who (to his credit) held him back firmly. It was fortunate, in an unfortunate kind of way, that Scotty had been manacled for so long; his arms, being visibly strained and worn out, prevented him from putting his usual level of passion into the struggle, and Lilly had no doubt he'd wear himself out long before he wore out the SWAT boy. Nonetheless, it was a sad thing to see, and she couldn't keep that sadness from touching every part of her as she addressed Stillman (and, of course, the boss was top of his game; he hadn't made Lieutenant by missing little things like that). Not allowing him the chance to leap in and broach the subject before she herself was willing to do, she continued swiftly. "Gonna need a paramedic."

Any question over the qualm behind her voice was left neatly unasked as Stillman responded to this new information with characteristic smartness. "_We got wounded?"_

Lilly's eyes rested on Kat then, so pale and so pained and so desperately trying to keep it together, and she had to grit her teeth to keep the emotion from seeping into her voice again. "Just one. Bastard took a piece outta Miller." She pointedly kept her sentences short, hoping that such brevity would have the side-effect of making her sound more professional. "Doesn't look serious. But, uh, there's a lot of blood." At that, Kat let out the ragged ghost of a laugh, and Lilly grimaced. "A _lot_ of blood, Boss," she reiterated in a very low whisper, partially to hammer the point home, but also – and she couldn't deny it – to give herself the excuse presented by needing to emphasise the word to divert her eyes from her suffering colleague.

"_On it,_" Stillman said, curtly, clearly making a pointed effort to avoid giving the unpleasant matter any more attention than it absolutely needed. "_Need anything else?"_

The question struck her as a rather odd one for him to be asking; he knew her well enough to know that – if there had been something else she'd needed – she would have asked for it already. She couldn't help wondering, as much of a professional as John Stillman was, whether he was perhaps extending the conversation deliberately, just to keep her on the line. She knew how deeply he'd been affected by the prospect of losing Scotty and Kat, and so recently after he'd let her get hurt too. Oh, they all knew that was no more his fault than it had been Scotty's… but, as far as he was concerned, he was the goddamn lieutenant and he should've taken the goddamn bullet. He didn't blame himself for not being able to stop it – he was old and wise enough to know better than that by now – but he sure as hell blamed himself for not being the one to take the hit.

Lilly couldn't help being more than a little saddened at the realisation that, even now, in a situation so completely and painfully different, it was her experience that was on everyone's mind, and her injury (long past and long healed by now) that everyone was still blaming themselves for. Scotty, of course, being hard-headed and emotive, would never accept that he wasn't directly responsible for every evil that befell everyone in the world, so she supposed she could let him slide. But she'd expected more from the boss. He knew how dangerous it was to dwell on 'should-have-been's, and he knew that it didn't help anyone.

The biggest drawback of having been in the game as long as Stillman had, she realised, was the fact that – more and more as time passed and criminals were more dangerous and came by knives and guns and bombs so much more easily – it was inevitable that you'd see your men get hurt. It was part of Stillman's job to witness it, and part of Lilly's job to endure it. It was the very nature of everything they did, and there was no avoiding it. But therein lay the problem of working in such a high-risk job, with a team that were a family. Seeing one of your men go down was painful enough for any lieutenant… but for one who saw each and every one of his men as family? All of a sudden, Lilly didn't need to imagine how heartbreaking that was for a man like Stillman, because she was feeling it herself right now, seeing Kat and – in a way, worse – Scotty.

"Nothing else," she said softly.

Kat dropped her head down on Lilly's shoulder, trying to get near the phone. "Wait," she said with as much import as she could. "Tell Vera… he better… have my donut."

Lilly rolled her eyes. "Nothing else," she repeated, waiting for the click to signify that Stillman had hung up, before following his lead by doing the same herself. That being done, she turned a little to examine Kat. "Are you kidding?" she cried, knowing the answer before she'd even asked the question. "You're probably gonna be eating through a tube for a week, and you have a donut craving!?"

Kat tilted her head to respond, her chin pressing sharply into Lilly's shoulder while she made eye-contact. "He… owes me… a donut. I… want… my… goddamn… donut."

"You want your head examined," Lilly retorted, but a fond smile touched her lips nonetheless, and she blinked in poorly-concealed surprise as she realised that her fingertips were trailing unconsciously through Kat's hair as the injured woman continued to lean into her, in a gesture that could only be described – though she would deny it to her last breath if she needed to – as 'maternal'. Surprised as she was (and pleasantly so, being unused to it) by the sentiment, she made a silent vow to make donuts of all variations into a taboo within the office. Clearly, neither Vera nor Miller understood the concept of 'moderation'.

The moment of levity was brief, but it was enough to give Lilly hope. Her eyes crossed the room to Scotty, still struggling against the unfortunate SWAT guy, and she couldn't help wondering whether it had been the same for him, needing to take his optimism from the standoffish comments thrown out by his wounded team-mate. The thought was enough to pull her attention back where it needed to be, and she took a small anxious breath at the knowledge that she was about to leap headfirst into a situation that she didn't understand involving the guy on the team who meant more to her even than the others.

"Scotty," she said, keeping her voice even. "Drop the cowboy act. Guy's being held by five SWATs – and, soon as you calm yourself down, it'll be six. He's not going anywhere." She allowed her eyes to show the sympathy that her voice would not, even though she knew it would inflame him even more, and she wasn't the least bit surprised when he reacted to her statements with further violence.

"Respectfully, Lil," he said, the words coming all together as a single low growl, "You ain't got a clue what you're talkin' about. You been here, what, five minutes? We've been here forever. We ain't chit-chattin' about this." His eyes flared with a brightness that Lilly found almost blinding in its depthless intensity. "Fitzpatrick don't walk, end of story. Either your little SWAT-bots kill him, or I do."

Acting on impulse, Lilly moved to climb to her feet, having almost forgotten the semi-conscious cop sprawled across her shoulder. She checked herself briefly, offering Kat an awkward hug as she eased the other woman off her, and making apologies that Kat shrugged off without saying a word. Adding, almost as an afterthought, that Kat would damn well stay conscious until the paramedic showed up or she (Lilly) would make damn sure she'd never get that donut, she excused herself and stepped through the labyrinth of SWAT boys and their guns, to stand toe-to-toe with Scotty (who, naturally, was rather unceremonious in receiving her company). It shocked and scared her to see the madness dancing in his eyes, eyes she'd seen so many times herself and knew – she'd always thought – so well she'd recognise them anywhere. She sure as hell didn't recognise them now, though, and she couldn't help thinking about the irony of the fact that it was the victim in seemingly perfect physical health who needed her attention and her help so much more than the critically wounded one.

"Look at me, Scotty," she said, nodding at the SWAT guy to step aside and resume his position marking Fitzpatrick, which he did without hesitation. She took the opportunity presented by the empty space now in front of Scotty to take him by the shoulders, and force him to face her – even if she was unable to directly force him to actually look into her eyes. "Look at me. Whatever this guy did to you, it's not worth this." He struggled as she held him in place, but his movements were even more weak against her than they had been against the SWAT boy. She would've liked to flatter herself that this was a direct product of his affection and respect for her, and their shared experiences, but she rather suspected he'd simply been worn down by now from so much struggle, and was simply unable to put up much of a fight anymore. "Look at me. Focus on _me_."

For just a moment, it seemed like he was going to. His eyes fixed on her face, ever so briefly, and she was certain she saw the steel in his face beginning to melt ever so slightly. She believed, for that moment, that she had him; not least of all, she knew, because she _wanted_ to believe it. They'd been through everything together; oh, they'd both had their careers before each other, but they were a team now far stronger than anything either of them had known before. Things just clicked with them, everything just came together. Just as he had always known the right moment to step in and keep her strong (she'd never told him about her mother, but somehow he'd known she'd needed him then), she liked to think that she too had always known the right moment and the right method to step in and save him from himself. Well, there was Christina, the one moment of bitterness between them… but even that was an obstacle their partnership had overcome. This was nothing like that, but the memory that even their biggest rift had been overcome was, once again, enough to drive her onwards, and she felt her fingers tighten into his shoulders and her own eyes harden darkly as they stared deep into his.

It was a long, intense moment, and it stretched to breaking point. But when it did break – as it had to – it was with a fury that left Lilly reeling. "The hell with you, Lil," Scotty snarled, once again struggling against her. "Outta everyone, you're the one who should've understood." And now he sounded like she'd done him some intentional unkindness by not wanting to see him go down that path, and that broke her heart more than anything she'd seen in that room so far. "You don't get it, get lost. _Get the hell off of me_!"

Suddenly, it was taking every ounce of strength she had to hold him in place; where had all his extra energy come from? As she fought him, her eyes caught Fitzpatrick. The man stood perfectly at ease under the six guns, and his face had widened into a leering sort of grin as Lilly continued to exert all her available force into keeping Scotty in tow. The look on the captive's face was deeply unnerving, and it struck an odd chord deep inside her – one she hadn't been prepared for – which was enough to cause her grip on Scotty to loosen, almost imperceptibly and just for a single fragmented second. It was, of course, more than enough for the well-trained cop (exhausted and crazed as he was right then) to regain his senses and push her away, throwing himself upon Fitzpatrick with a wildness she had never seen… not just in Scotty Valens, but in any man.

Not knowing what to do, the SWATs – moving almost as a unit – looked to Lilly for instruction, even as Scotty drove both his fists into the man's face in a rhythm that (had the situation not been so brutal) might almost have been poetic. For a moment, even knowing that she was the authority here, Lilly couldn't bring herself to do anything more than watch in horror as Scotty vented the brunt of his rage on the man's face before, finally having exhausted his fists beyond all worthwhile use, opting to tighten his fingers around his throat in a bid to strangle him. That gesture, brutal as it was, was enough to snap Lilly swiftly back into her senses. She'd seen Scotty get mad enough to beat a guy half to death before – hell, it wouldn't surprise her if he one day found himself suspended for doing such (and Stillman wouldn't be there to take the fall if that ever happened) – but she'd never seen him try to take a man's life with his bare hands, and the motion jolted her into action.

Once again taking hold of her partner, she dragged him backwards with as much force as she could muster, keeping a firm grip on him even as he roared and struggled. In the corner of her eye, she could see Fitzpatrick climbing unsteadily back to his feet, that disturbing leer still firmly fixed upon his face. "Ya see that, lady?" he said, in a voice that was deep and filled with gravel, and almost more unsettling than the leer. "Police brutality! You gonna discipline your boy Valens, or do I gotta press charges against him?"

"How about you drop the '_poor little psychopath'_ crap, and just be thankful I stopped him?" Lilly replied, wasting no time or effort in actually turning to face the man, instead continuing to focus all her physical energy – save the half-second it took to throw out the reply – on restraining Scotty.

Whether or not Fitzpatrick made any reply, she really had no idea. Having made the point, and already having the vast majority of her attention on Scotty, she'd promptly dropped any vague semblance of interest she'd had in the bastard, allowing the SWAT boys to keep him at bay on their own. Besides which, she had much bigger problems at hand, namely her uncharacteristically wild partner. Even now, he continued to thrash and fight against her, almost as if he believed she too was an enemy of his. Had he been at full strength, she had no doubt he would've flattened her – possibly even with a punch, if he felt it necessary, and that was a thought that outright terrified her – and resumed his assault on Fitzpatrick; but, in his current condition, it was all he could do to put up any kind of fight at all, and doubly so now with his knuckles raw and bleeding from the brief beating he'd had the opportunity to administer to his target. He was, she couldn't deny, a pathetic figure, and one she sorely wished would allow her to nurture him back to something resembling mental health, instead of persevering with his pointless struggle – a struggle which he must know he stood no chance of winning. It was nothing short of miraculous that he hadn't collapsed from exertion and exhaustion by now, and she found herself thinking (despite her every instinct) that perhaps it would be best for all involved if he did exactly that. Maybe they'd need two paramedics if he did, but it simply had to be a better option than one paramedic and one guy holding a body-bag.

His voice was growing hoarse with all the shouting, and she took the opportunity presented by a break in it, to leap on and try to reason with him again. Making a point of the boundary between justice and murder having clearly not worked on his tormented mind, she instead tried the alternative of bringing his focus back from Fitzpatrick and onto himself and his own situation. "Scotty. What'd he do to you?"

She spoke with as much kindness as she was capable of, given that she was still needing to exert a lot of force into keeping him subdued. It wasn't a lot, but she hoped – even if it didn't bring him back from the edge completely, as she was beginning to wonder whether anything would be able to do that now – it would at the very least force him to look at her and see, not another cop trying to keep him from eking out his brand of home-made vengeance, but his friend and partner Lilly Rush, who truly wanted nothing more than to help him look inside himself and find some semblance of peace within the shattered remains of his soul.

"You gotta ask the question?" Scotty spat, but the harshness of his tone couldn't conceal the fact that he'd ceased his struggles to try and answer. "Look around, Lil. Use them detective skills you're so goddamn proud of." His head jerked spasmodically in Kat's direction, and Lilly spared a brief glance – mostly, she had to admit, just to make sure she was still conscious – before throwing off a shrug.

"Didn't ask what he did to her," she said, quietly. The urge to apologise to the wounded cop rose strong within her, but she fought it down. Kat was still Kat; Scotty, right now, wasn't Scotty, and Lilly's priority at that moment was to bring back the guy she'd worked with for five years. And maybe the two situations were the same, but somehow she didn't think so, and pressed, "I asked what he did to _you_."

Unfortunately, though not wholly unexpectedly, Scotty seemed to take just as much offence at that as he had by her suggesting that they shouldn't resort to vengeance by murder. "See?" he said, hopelessly, pulling free from her grip and slumping to the floor. "You don't get it." She crouched beside him, keeping a firm hand on his shoulder just in case he found a second wind, and urged him with her eyes to explain it to her… to _make_ her understand, which – at that moment – was all she wanted in the world. And, finally, with an exhaustion that ran so deep she couldn't even see the bottom of it, he continued. "It ain't him, Lil, it's me." He rested his head in his hands, but she tightened her grip, just to be safe. "What happened to her? That weren't him, it was me. Remember what happened to you? That was me, too. And it ain't just you. We're talkin' everything. Mike. Ana Castilla. _Elisa_." This last, more than any of the others, was spoken with such depthless pain that Lilly had to fight every impulse within her to keep from taking him into her arms and rocking him like a child. "It's all me, Lil."

And now he stood, angry once again, fists clenched tight. Lilly wanted to rise with him, to keep her hold on him and keep him restrained, but as he moved she saw his eyes, and knew he was done. His anger had shifted as he spoke, directing from Fitzpatrick back onto himself, and the rage that fuelled him now seemed to come less from a desire to slaughter his erstwhile captor and more from a desperation to keep himself from crying. She wanted to hold him, to comfort him, to keep him safe from all those demons that still devoured him. To protect him from all the rage that had him lashing out at his captor. To do all those things she'd always believed that she would never need to do because he was Scotty Valens and he was strong. And, on top of all that, maybe a small part of her was struggling now too against a renewed loathing for the man that now stood before the SWATs, the son of a bitch who'd brought back those unshed tears in Scotty's eyes. She wanted to do a countless number of things right then, but she found herself unable to do anything but listen to his heart break.

"That's why he's gotta die," he went on. "He… he took away the one thing I was proud of. The one thing I'd screwed up an' made right." For a single moment, Lilly thought he was still talking about Elisa, and she opened her mouth to throw out what meagre comfort she could, but then he went on, and she realised that – just as he'd said – she really hadn't got it. "My brother, Lil. I thought… I thought I was makin' it right. Y'know? I was giving him back what that… that bastard took from him. I was givin' him peace." And, again, the rage overtook him, and Lilly lunged upwards to catch him before he had the chance to move. "But _he_—" jabbing a finger at Fitzpatrick "—took it all away. The only time I made good. The _only_ _time_ I made somethin' right."

Lilly took his face in her hands, letting her fingertips trace the contours of his jawline with a tenderness she hoped would seep into him and calm him down. "Scotty," she whispered. "He's just a man. Whatever he did, he can't take away all the good things you've done. He can't stop you from being a good person. And you _are_ a good person. You are." He shook his head, violently, and she held him fast in place. "You need to let him live," she went on, insistent. "You know why? 'Cause you're going to take it all back. You're _lost_, Scotty." She heard her voice crack on the word 'lost', as if it was the hardest thing she'd ever said. It wasn't, but it was damn close. "You're lost. But you won't be forever. And one day, you're gonna want to look at him and take back whatever the hell it is he took from you. And you can't do that if he's dead. Don't deny yourself, Scotty."

"I wanna kill him, Lil…" he whispered, helpless and frightened.

"I know," she replied, feeling those same emotions.

He was looking right at her, now. Not through her, not past her. Finally, he was looking at her, and she saw the recognition in his eye, and knew she'd won. "I wanna… I wanna…" He trailed off, and the tears sprang into his eyes. She pulled him close, and held him as they fell. "I wanna go home…" he sobbed, the sound more fragile than anything she'd ever heard before. "…take me home."

* * *

**TBC**


	14. Heavy

_A/N: Once again, many thanks for the feedback. Advanced warning, though – this chapter was a nightmare to write, because I suck at moving things forward and just end up dancing around the transition process and getting nowhere. I'm still wholly dissatisfied with how it turned out, so apologies in advance.  
_

**14.  
Heavy**

* * *

There was an elusive sort of poetry in Lilly's voice as she spoke to Scotty. Kat had never noticed it before, but it shone through now, clearer than daylight. It was as if Lilly was speaking from the deepest depths of herself, putting her soul into every word and trusting it into Scotty's hands to take it and nurture it. Scotty must have noticed it as well, because he was actually responding to Lilly's words in a way he'd never quite allowed himself to respond to Kat when she'd been the one trying to keep him sane.

It made her happy, and sad at the same time, to see the way they complemented each other. Before any of this had happened, she remembered, Scotty had asked her how in the hell she and Vera managed to be so close without ever needing to say anything, and she'd made the point – and, at the time, believed it – that there wasn't a need for words when the emotions were there. Looking at him and Lilly now, she'd been wrong. Whatever she had with Vera, however deeply their respect and affection for each other went, it could never touch the poetry in Lilly's voice as she spoke right from the soul to connect with Scotty. The words were important, the talking was important. It wasn't enough to simply know that the emotions were there because, when the time came that words were needed to keep them grounded, they wouldn't know what to do.

Had she known then what she'd known now, she would've told Scotty to keep making his promises. She would've told him that it didn't matter if he couldn't keep them, because it _did_ matter that he was making them. Of course, that would've meant she would have needed to come out and admit she'd been wrong about something (and, if there was one thing Kat Miller was _not_, it was wrong… ever), so maybe it was for the best that she couldn't go back and change that conversation. But watching them now, with her, seeing him respond to her as she continued to hold him and talk him down from the edge of madness and despair, she couldn't deny that it was something special. And maybe (just maybe) she was a little jealous of it.

"I'm going to take you home," Lilly was saying, keeping her tone gentle and reassuring. "We just gotta wait for the paramedic, okay?" As she spoke the words, so low that Kat had to strain to hear them, she eased herself and Scotty back to the floor, still holding him close. Scotty didn't put up any further struggle, allowing himself to be moved in a gesture so unlike his previous violence that Kat was startled to see it. "We just need get Miller taken care of, okay? Just a little bit longer, then you can go home."

Kat wanted to tell them that they didn't need to stick around for her sake. She'd managed to keep herself conscious for this long, hadn't she? Not to mention the more pressing fact that it was plainly obvious to everyone in the room that Scotty's condition was far more serious than her own; she might've been the one flirting with death, but he'd been (and still was) flirting with insanity, and she sure as hell knew which of the two she would rather be dealing with, thanks. She wanted to – and, indeed, tried to – open her mouth and tell Lilly that it was far, as far as she was concerned, if she took Scotty home right then and left Kat in the almost-capable hands of the SWAT team until the paramedic's arrival… but she couldn't form the words. Worse yet, she was fairly certain that it wasn't the weakness preventing her from uttering them, but instead some unconscious desire on her part to keep those familiar faces, and those shared words between them, close by.

Oh, she wanted to be fine and independent and completely unaffected by the pain… but she wasn't. Almost more than Lilly's sympathetic embrace had been, her words of comfort to Scotty were far more so, and Kat drank deep of the emotion and affection that ran through both of them. Lilly, especially, but Scotty too – in his own way. He was half-crazed, delirious with grief and sorrow and a pain so different from hers and yet just as soul-shattering… but he could see Lilly Rush standing in front of him, and had laid into her hands every last part of him that Fitzpatrick had destroyed. The trust needed to do that, Kat knew, had to be phenomenal; it was truly uplifting to see, even across the vast distance between herself and them.

"I wanna go home," he whimpered again, clinging desperately to Lilly as if she was the only thing in his world (and maybe she was). "I don't wanna be here any more."

"I know, Scotty…" Lilly said softly. "I know…"

Fully aware of the danger in doing so, Kat let her eyes drift shut, and felt her body slide down the wall until she way lying on her back. She was still conscious, she told herself, just focussing her thoughts on listening to Lilly's voice – just as Scotty was doing. Just concentrating all her energy on absorbing that poetry in the blonde's words, and the compassion in her speech. It was easier with her eyes closed. No SWAT boys in the way, waving their guns at Fitzpatrick, who continued to grin at the scene around him through a bloody nose and a couple of loose teeth (both courtesy of Scotty's earlier attack). No tears, no pain, none of the horrors that painted themselves across every last facet of Scotty Valens. Just blissful darkness and the soothing sound of Lilly's voice as she continued to talk at him. It wasn't even that she was saying anything of substance – instead merely repeating over and over again that she knew, she understood, she could feel what Scotty was feeling, and that they'd be out of there soon, really soon, just as soon as the paramedic showed up. No, it wasn't the words themselves, it was the way Lilly said them, connecting with even the simplest utterances as if they were centuries-old secrets; connecting (more importantly) with Scotty, and wrapping the words around him like a tourniquet.

Over and over again, Kat told herself she knew what she was doing, that listening to Lilly's words and hearing the effect it had on Scotty was just as comforting to her as it was to him. Over and over again, she told herself that she was in perfect control, and that all she needed to do was keep listening. Deep down inside, she must've known that she was stupid for even pretending to believe herself, but it wasn't until she realised that it wasn't hurting to breathe anymore that she knew just how stupid she was.

It was easy to fall, she knew from experience, but much harder to climb back up. She could still hear Lilly murmuring to Scotty, and hear the despair within him as he continued to sob, but she couldn't make out anything else. And she felt her breathing flatten out, shallow and painless, and knew that she'd fallen too far. She wanted to listen, to hear, to absorb Scotty's sorrow and Lilly's comfort and all the poetry that – even now – still flowed like water between them. That was all she'd wanted to do, to draw her own brand of solace from the reconciliation of two people who cared about each other like nobody else she'd ever known. It wasn't so much to ask for… but, like everything else she'd ever done, she'd taken it too damn far. She'd known the danger of closing her eyes, but she'd done so; she'd known the danger of lying back, but she'd done so. And now she was falling, still falling, and already too far down to pull herself back to the right side of consciousness.

She'd done so well up to this point; she should've been proud of herself for enduring that long all by herself. She should've been a million things, in honesty, but all she could bring herself to be now was utterly exhausted. What she was couldn't even be described as 'semiconscious' anymore. She was going so fast that, by the time her mind registered it, she was practically gone… and, of every stupid thing she'd ever done in her life, none had pained her as much as what she had to do now. She'd only wanted to listen, to hear the gentleness and the poetry, but now she had to shatter that moment between them both, for the sake of her own foolishness, and it tore her apart to do it, almost as much as it tore her body apart to force herself to make a sound – any sound at all – to draw their attention back to her, just for a second. "…Nhn…"

The soothing rhythm of speech and sobbing between Lilly and Scotty was broken right then, and she could sense (or imagine she sensed) the disbelief crash through both of them. She felt herself being hoisted back up, and felt her head rocking unpleasantly as someone – she could only assume Lilly – shook her. "No, no, no. No. Get your lazy ass back here, Miller. Come on. Come on. Come back."

The jolting motion and the words, hard and toneless – a sharp contrast to the poetry of before – helped bring her back, and a violent spasm racked her body as her eyelids jerked open once again. "Mm. Sorry…" Her gaze drifted, still sluggish and unfocussed, towards Scotty. He sat there still, where Lilly had eased him down, and glared at the floor as if it was the source of all his unhappiness. Kat tried to catch his eye, to apologise to him as well as Lilly for intruding on their moment, but he refused to raise his head and look at her. Whether it was because her lapse had been a stark reminder of his own innate guilt, or whether he really was mad at her for invading his grief, she didn't know, but – either way – she didn't blame him. "Sorry…" she mumbled again, refocusing on Lilly with considerable effort, and pulling herself back. "Jus'… so tired."

"I know," Lilly said again, and Kat noted the lack of poetry in the words this time around. "I know you're tired. I know you're in pain. I know. But you've gotta stay awake. And I've gotta deal with Scotty. You understand that, right?" There was heartbreak in her eyes, and in every muscle as she briskly rubbed Kat's shoulders and arms in a further bid to help her stay conscious. "Scotty's messed up. You're the toughest ex-Narc cop in Philly, and I need you to keep being that, just 'till the paramedic gets here, okay? I really, really need to focus on Scotty." She leaned in to whisper confidentially, with a humour that Kat was sure came with great difficulty to her right now. "'Cause he's a guy, right? You know they're can't do anything without a woman holding their hand." She leaned back with a wry smile. "We gals can take care of ourselves."

"Mm…" Kat shook her head a little, feeling the nausea rise in reaction to it, and allowing that discomfort to clear her mind somewhat. "Yeah. I'm… I'm good now."

"Atta girl," Lilly replied, and moved to return to her feet.

Before she had the chance to fully rise, Kat caught her arms, and held her in place. "No… Lil," she said, and she wasn't just speaking slowly because it was the only way she could speak now. She had to make sure Lilly understood what she was trying to say, even if her body failed her in pushing the words out. "I'm… _good_… now." Lilly blinked for a moment, but didn't pull away. Kat fought for breath. "Medic… gonna be here any… any minute… right?" A small frown creasing her forehead, Lilly nodded. "So… so… you should…" She gulped down some air, ignoring the scream of protest from her lungs as the influx of cold threatened to shred them, and ended her bid in one shallow breath, "…you should take your boy home."

The admission wasn't easy, and not just because speech in general was difficult. She wanted Lilly there, and – more than that – she wanted Scotty there. He wouldn't look at her, wouldn't look at anything but Lilly, but his presence there kept her on the right side. Focussing on him had held her head above the water, and she couldn't deny being a little frightened of letting that go. But his needs were greater than hers right now and, if there was one thing she'd learned through the chaos that was being a parent, it was how to make sacrifices when someone else's needs were greater. Once the doc showed up, she could let herself go under. But he couldn't. And, as much as she wanted to cling to his presence, she knew that she couldn't; he'd given her all he had (even if he hadn't been aware of it) when she'd needed it, and now it was her turn to give it all back to him. She was the toughest ex-Narc cop in Philly and, dammit, she was gonna prove just how tough that was.

Lilly was staring, the look on her face insisting that Kat was crazy for even thinking to make such a ludicrous suggestion. "You serious? You just fell asleep, and you want me to leave you unsupervised? You planning to make sure your next unscheduled nap won't be interrupted?"

"You can get… your SWAT-bots… to do that…" Kat pointed out. She tried to pull herself upright, to reach face-level and sustain eye-contact, but Lilly caught her and leaned forwards to make contact instead. "You said it… yourself," Kat continued. "He… he needs you. You… gotta… gotta do right… by him." By this point, her lungs were threatening total collapse, but she'd be damned if she'd let them win before doing what she had to do. Not wanting Lilly to see the suffering on her face as she felt another wave of pain drag her under, she pulled the other woman into a hug, burying herself in it. "Go… set him… free."

Lilly exhaled tightly. Kat could feel the resignation in her, hard as she tried to hide it. "Don't let me down, Kat Miller," she sighed in defeat, lips forming the words in a low hum against Kat's temple. "I've done the 'only female murder cop in Philly' bit. I'm sure as hell not gonna do it again."

-

* * *

-

From the moment Lilly left his side, through to the moment she returned, Scotty had kept his eyes fixed firmly on the floor. A small part of him was aware of the fact that he no doubt looked like a small and petulant child, but the vast majority of him really didn't care. That same small part of him knew that he was locked up inside his own head, and that nothing good could come of that, but – again – the vast majority of him didn't care about that either. He felt exhausted, more exhausted than he had ever felt in his life, and he couldn't help marvelling at how something as simple as emotional trauma could lead to such physical exhaustion.

After Elisa, he'd really believed that nothing in his life could make him feel as exhausted as he had then. He'd always thought the grief and the loss and the pain (that, like the exhaustion, had been truly physical in nature; while still in the confused throes of numbness, he'd almost thought he was having a heart attack, it had hurt so badly) was the deepest he could possibly go. But it wasn't. Not by a long way.

In his mind's eye, the floor swirled and distorted, shaping itself into her face just for a moment. He watched her mouth form indecipherable words, and felt the tears welling up again. He didn't want to cry; he hadn't wanted to cry earlier, and he didn't want to cry now, but the tears were so much more powerful than he was, and he simply could not fight them. It was as if his body had given up on him entirely, leaving him a hollow physical shell with nothing inside and no power to do anything. He felt… broken. In the most literal sense of the word, and with everything it stood for. He felt like pieces of him were gone, and that the rest of him was unable to function without them, but they weren't coming back. Not even Lilly could bring them back.

He wanted to fight back the tears, just like he wanted to pretend he was strong and brave and fine with everything that had happened. He wanted to be like Miller, and that was why he wouldn't look at her. It didn't seem fair that she could be lying there half-dead and still be making wisecracks, while he was supposed to be in perfect health and crying like a baby. Why did she get all the goddamn inner strength? And, of course, asking the question only served to give him the answer he didn't want to hear – that it wasn't her fault for being strong, it was his fault for being weak – and that in turn just reinforced the self-loathing and the hatred that had been devouring him. He didn't want to be weak, he didn't want to be crying. He didn't want to need Lilly right then. He didn't want to need anyone, and the fact that it was Lilly Rush just made his whole situation that much more unbearable. _He_ was the one who looked out for _her_. He was the one who rode in on his shiny white stallion and picked her up and protected her like some kind of porcelain princess. She was the lady, he was the hero.

So why was he the one lying in a ditch right now, waiting for her to come back and sweep him off his feet? Why was he the damsel in distress waiting for the handsome prince to rescue her? He was the man, dammit. It was his job to protect. It wasn't right that he was the one who needed protecting. It wasn't right that he was the weakest of all three of them right then. It wasn't right, and it just made him sink lower and lower to dwell on that. Everything he should've been, everything he'd promised he'd be, for everyone he loved… he could never be any of it. He wasn't good enough, he wasn't strong enough. He wasn't man enough.

"Hey, Scotty." Lilly was back at his side now, and he found that he couldn't raise his head to look at her either. He remained stoic and unmoving as she pulled him close, eyes still fixed on the ground even as it continued to mock him with Elisa's face. "Hey," Lilly said again. "You still in there?"

Though he didn't answer, he couldn't help thinking with no small amount of bitterness that she'd probably see that as an improvement. He wasn't going crazy, trying to shoot innocent soul-destroying psychopaths. He wasn't crying like a baby, at least not so far as he'd let her see. Hell, he wasn't doing much of anything, just sitting there like a good boy and waiting for her to take him home. No pressure on her to keep him calm, and all she had to do was be there for him. She knew that, and it hurt. She knew that she didn't need to do a damn thing, just be there and take him home and tell him he was loved… and he'd believe it, because she was the one who was saying it. And he hated her for knowing that, for lavishing her words and her love and her sympathy on him like some kind of charity case; and he hated himself even more because, right at that moment, those words and that love and that charity-case sympathy… they were everything in the universe that he wanted.

"Scotty," she repeated, patiently. "C'mon. We're going home."

That got his attention. The way she said it, he could almost believe that, once he got there, everything would be all right. If she could just take him home, he'd be okay. He'd go to bed and close his eyes and wake up in the morning and find the entire fiasco had just been a bad dream… and he'd laugh about it, and he'd tell Mike all about it, and Mike would laugh too, because the whole thing was just so stupid.

Slowly, agonisingly slowly, he raised his head. He could feel the tears still burning his eyes, hot with pain and shame, but it was nothing next to what he saw in hers when he finally met them. Gone was the sympathy, gone was the compassion of a friend who wanted to help but didn't really know how. All that was there, all that remained was the love, the purest of all the things he'd wanted, and etched so deep that nothing could touch it. She wasn't offering herself because he needed her, and she wasn't offering herself because she'd broken through to him where Kat had failed. She was offering herself to him, to take him home and stay with him as long as he needed her, because she wanted to. Because, just as all he wanted was to see that love in her eyes and hear her tell him she'd stay by his side, all that she wanted – and he could see it clear and bright like diamonds in her eyes, refracted by the tears in his – was to give him those things. She wasn't there because he needed her. She was there because she wanted to be there. And seeing all that in her eyes almost stole his soul.

"Home?" he repeated, aware of the fact that he sounded like a little boy. She nodded, and helped him upright. Not pulling or forcing him, as he thought she would've done, but instead just supporting and holding him while he found the power in his legs to support himself. Even then, when he was upright and standing under his own power, albeit swaying slightly beneath the weight of his grief, she still held him tight, her arms wrapped around him like a blanket, and her face leaning in close to his as she murmured the affirmative.

She didn't give a verbal response, instead beginning to move them both towards the door (which looked rather dented as a result of the SWAT boys' treatment). As he'd expected, she paused to throw some instructions to the squad over her shoulder – simple ones, like insisting they make sure Kat stayed conscious, and asking them to tell Stillman that Scotty had been her highest priority – and, while she did so, Scotty again fixed his eyes on the ground. He had no intention of looking at Miller, not at all, until she was either dead or fully recovered; at this point, he truly couldn't decide which of the two would be the more painless for him.

And then, seemingly with no transition at all, they were outside. Sunlight and fresh air clamoured for his attention, stinging his eyes and warming his skin. An involuntary shiver rocked him for a moment, and he felt Lilly loosen her grip around him for just a moment. He thought he heard her uttering some kind of futile comfort in his ear, but his senses were so inundated by the sight and sound and sensation of being outdoors after innumerable hours spent chained to a wall in what had seemed to be the darkest bar in Philadelphia, that he couldn't make out anything she was saying. Not that it mattered. She was there with him, and she was taking him home. He wanted to smile, to embrace that knowledge, to revel in the sensations of being free; but the simple fact was, he wasn't free. Deep within, he was still bound by his demons. No amount of sunlight and security, no amount of Lilly Rush would change that… and the realisation caused every blissful sensation of freedom and comfort to come crashing down upon him once again, the air turning cold in a single instant, and he stumbled.

"You need to stop?" Lilly asked, her voice and movements heavy with concern as she shifted beside him in a bid to keep him from falling. "No hurry, Scotty. Take as long as you need."

He felt his fists clench at his sides, the urge to punch something rising within him, and he didn't know why. She was trying to help, he knew, trying so damn hard. And not because she needed to, which made it all the more frustrating to be reminded now of the fact that she couldn't understand. Maybe she'd been right about Fitzpatrick; maybe one day he'd want to seek the bastard out, rotting in prison alongside his son-of-a-bitch father, and look the man in the eye to tell him he was free. Maybe he would be more satisfied, years from now, to know he hadn't surrendered completely and left the man dead. But that was where it ended. Lilly didn't know what he was going through; how could she? Her presence was a source of eternal comfort to him, a shaft of light through the clouds that enveloped him, because she was perfect. Really and truly perfect, not that romanticised kind of so-called 'perfect' that giddy couples talked about. She was Lilly Rush, she was everything a good cop should be. She went with her gut feelings, and always came right. She couldn't understand, what it was like to be wrong, even sometimes, much less all the damn time. She was his saviour, but she couldn't save him.

"I don't need to stop," he said in a monotone. "I just wanna go home." Even in his dulled state, he was aware of how different the request sounded now, compared to how it had sounded before. Earlier, it had been a plea, a desperate cry from a desperate man; now, it was a simple statement from a simple creature. He was exhausted, he was lost, and he was shattered. He just wanted to go home. He just wanted to curl up in bed, knowing Lilly was right there beside him, and knowing he'd wake up with all this a million miles away. And a tiny part of his brain tried to warn him that it was exactly this route that his brother had taken after Scotty himself had dredged up his own childhood memories, the chaos that had started all this; that same part of his brain was trying to make him remember that this was exactly the route that had left Mike's wife and his kids (and, yeah, his brother) worried sick about him. But he didn't care. He just wanted to go to bed. He just wanted to sleep until all the nightmares went away. Was that so much to ask, after everything he'd done?

Lilly nodded, a motion that Scotty felt rather than saw, and fell into silence. He never thought to ask her if she knew how to get where they needed from where they were, or any of a thousand other logical questions that should've been on his mind at that moment. None of them mattered; she was Lilly Rush, and – come Hell or high water – she would find a way to get him where he needed to be. It wasn't even a question worth considering, unlike the countless others that still raced through his head like F1 Ferraris. No, he wouldn't waste his time doubting her, not when that time could be so much better spent doubting himself, and not when that was something he did so damn well. He was Scotty Valens and she was Lilly Rush; it was his job to screw up, and her job to fix it. That was just the way it was, and he was sure as hell not going to screw up again by doubting her.

"Lil?" When he spoke, it was softer than a sigh. She didn't respond, but the shift in her posture as she continued to support him said she was listening. "You gonna stay with me?"

"Of course," she replied. "If you want me to. I thought you'd wanna be…"

"Alone? Nah." The tears were welling up again, but this time he found it within himself to fight them down. They'd resurface again soon, he knew, but he had to finish this first. Had to know that she wanted to be there, that she wanted to stay with him, and not just because he'd want her to. She was a cop, like he was, and they both knew she had a million reasons to be elsewhere, a million fractured pieces of this mess that he'd made and she would need to clean up, so he made a conscious effort to phrase his next question in such a way that told her he knew and understood if she only had a half-hour for him. "How long…?"

He could feel the warmth rise in her, and knew she was smiling. "Forever."

That was enough. That was more than enough. He let himself slip into oblivion, then. Let her guide him, and simply followed wherever the river of her motions took him. He'd get there, he knew. She'd see him home, she'd see him safe. And then, finally, he would block out the whole world.

* * *

**TBC**

_A/N: Assuming it actually writes itself in a vaguely coherent way – which is more than can be said for this one – I may try and give poor Scotty a little break over the next chapter, and work on some kind of resolution for the donut plot. 'Cause we all know that's the most important part of this fic. ;-)_


	15. When The Water Falls

_A/N: As usual, countless thanks for the feedback. oucellogal – still loving the hell out of ETTFC, naturally (I'd choose some particularly awesome parts, but that would involve having to choose…), and the new fic, of course! Also, yep, I'm definitely planning on showing more of the Scotty/Lilly angst and hurt/comfort type stuff in upcoming chapters, so stay tuned._

**15.  
When The Water Falls**

* * *

Nick Vera wasn't the kind of guy who made a habit of doing favours for other people. Sure, he'd tell everyone that he'd won Toni over by doing just that, offering to use his police influence to 'take care of' a parking ticket she'd got. Of course, as Scotty had been so quick to point out, his police influence was exactly zero, so 'taking care of' the ticket had pretty much translated as 'paying the damn thing himself'… but she hadn't needed to know that. Fact was, as a rule, unless he wanted to end up sleeping with a woman, he made a point of not going out of his way to start doing favours for them. And, since he had absolutely no intention of ever sleeping with Lilly Rush, he couldn't help being rather at a loss to figure out why she was asking for a favour.

He'd got most of the details from Stillman, and was trying to build a cohesive picture of what had actually happened from that. He knew the obvious – Lilly had found them; Miller had been hurt, but apparently not so badly hurt that it had stopped Lil from bailing on her with Valens; and, beyond a very brief phone-call into the office, Lilly had given no explanation for her departure and continued absence, beyond explaining that Scotty needed her. To begin with, that being all he'd been allowed to find out, Vera had found himself more than a little angry at her; so far as he was concerned, the whole thing had been one of those infuriating situations when a cop got too emotionally involved with a case and had let her emotions get the better of her. Vera knew Scotty too, and there was nothing that could have hit the guy hard enough to warrant the two of them walking out and leaving Miller alone if she was hurt. So far as Nick Vera was concerned, there was simply no excuse for that.

At least, so he'd thought. That opinion was reversed the instant she'd phoned him, the following day, to ask for a favour. She was so quiet, so subdued, so unlike anything he'd ever heard from her before, and in that moment he'd known something wasn't right. He should've known all along; Lilly Rush being Lilly Rush, he should've known that she wouldn't forego her professional duties unless things were truly dire… but, even after all the time he'd worked with her, he still couldn't quite shake that stigma of knowing she was a female, and knowing how the female species got. He should've known better, though, and silently berated himself for it, even as he listened attentively as she briefed him and then proceeded to ask him for that elusive favour.

"You want me to write _your_ report?" he asked, dumbfounded.

The sound of an impatient sigh caught his ear over the static of a bad phone-line, and he grimaced. "_That's what I said,_" she retorted, her voice almost pleading. "_You know I wouldn't ask if it wasn't important._" Another sigh, and Vera had to hold the phone away from his ear just slightly. "_I gotta stay here, Nick. He needs me. And I get that this thing needs to be done, but I can't leave him right now. I just can't._"

Vera closed his eyes at the combined frustration and heartbreak in her voice, and wished he hadn't been so quick to jump to his conclusions about her reasons. "How's he doin'…?"

"_I'm asking you to write my report for me,_" Lilly reminded him, gently, but with a soberness in her voice that carried through to even his foolish mindset. "_How do you think he's doing?"_

The statement really was answer enough. Vera shook his head, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Boss'll understand if you hand it in late, Lil," he ventured. "He won't think less of you for it, 'specially given the circumstances. When it's family, he's gotta make exceptions." At that last sentence, though he was only paraphrasing what Stillman had told him before they'd sent out all their search parties, he could almost hear her features breaking into a smile. "Really don't need me to write it all out for you. Just wait till you can."

"_I know,_" Lilly replied quietly. "_I just—_"

"I get it, Lil," he said. "I do. But the report is something _you_ gotta do. Besides…" He let himself trail off, torn between speaking the truth and making up an excuse; eventually, his subconscious reminded him that – if there was anyone on the team who could appreciate the truth and how important it was to him – it was Lilly, and so he took a breath. "…I kinda wanted to, y'know, swing by the hospital…"

Silence fell on the other end of the line for a few long seconds. He could picture the conflict on her face, and the sorrow, and grimaced at having caused it. She sighed once more, clearly trying to compose herself before attempting to speak again. "_God,_" she murmured, at last. "_I'd forgotten._"

Vera felt his chest tighten at that. On the one hand, it was so unlike her to have forgotten anything, much less the fact that one of her team-mates was in hospital, that he couldn't help feeling his concern for both her and for Scotty double in intensity; and, on the other, he couldn't quite control the anger that rose in him at the realisation that – uncharacteristic or not – she'd damn well forgotten about Kat.

"Yeah, well," he said, coming across as rather stoic. "I didn't."

"_Nick…_" The word was an exhalation. "_She told me to take him home. You really think I would've left her if she'd needed me?"_ A hint of anger was creeping into her voice now, alongside the sadness. "_D'you have any idea what he was like in there? He had it worse than her. We both knew it._"

"Yeah," Vera replied, standoffishly. He knew he was being a jerk, knew damn well that he didn't have all the facts and therein couldn't possibly make judgement, but the anger in her voice had almost issued a challenge to his own, and there was no stopping him now. "Sure, of course. How many bullets did he take, again? 'Cause, from where I'm standin', unless it was two or more, you got some explain—"

"_One day, Vera,_" Lilly was speaking very slowly, her voice cold and hard as steel, "_that goddamn attitude of yours is gonna get you in trouble._" She paused, but only for a second._ "'Cause, from where _I'm_ standing, unless you were there, you don't get to demand explanation for a damn thing_."

Vera felt his fist clenching at his side, and resisted the temptation to punch the nearest wall. A tiny voice in the back of his head was yelling at him that she was right, but it was mostly overshadowed by the rage that had been at the forefront since before Lilly had even called; he'd thought – apparently, wrongly – that he'd had it under control once he'd heard the grief in her voice and realised how dire things really had to be for her to ask him for a work-related favour. But even that hadn't been enough to stem the anger he'd been feeling since he'd found out Lilly had left Kat wounded and alone in favour of nursing Scotty. "You left—"

"_Drop it, Vera,_" she said, with a deep-set aggression in her voice that made his blood rise higher. "_Drop it, and walk the hell away. We're not discussing this._"

"Fine," he said, allowing his tone to make it perfectly clear that the conversation wasn't over. "We're done. Give my best to Scotty, would ya?" He felt his entire demeanour softening as he said it; that part, at least, was sincere – angry as he was about his own issues, he couldn't deny the genuine concern he felt for the other man, and doubly so given Lilly's uncharacteristic refusal to make a point of explaining herself on the subject. Part of him wanted to follow up that gentleness with his usual brand of insensitive and inappropriate sarcasm, but that wouldn't come, and he instead found himself throwing out, "I'll tell her you said 'hi'."

He didn't need to excuse himself, he knew, but he made the effort to do so anyway. Stillman, of course, was quick with the understanding; Vera didn't even need to say a word, simply to enter the Lieutenant's office with the box of donuts tucked under his arm, and the boss knew. He merely nodded in humourless silence as Vera voiced his request, waiting patiently and thoughtfully as Vera proceeded to lay down his beliefs that _someone_ needed to check on Miller, and that Lilly was clearly too busy dealing with whatever the hell had hit Scotty, and that Jeffries was out handling the arrest of Fitzpatrick and debriefing the SWATs and all that other vitally important paperwork crap, and, well, he had the donuts anyway… and, when he finally came up for breath, the boss let out a sad sort of chuckle. He placed a paternal hand on Vera's shoulder, with a warmth that he'd seen given a few thousand times to Lilly and just a few to Scotty, but never to Nick Vera.

"Get out of here, Nick," he said, speaking so gently that Vera was almost tempted to ask '_who are you and what have you done with our badass boss?'_ (and maybe that right there was why he never got the paternal treatment). "We got the fort covered just fine without you for a few hours."

Vera's gratitude lasted until he cleared the threshold and that sick disinfectant hospital smell assaulted his nostrils, whereupon it was promptly replaced by an anxiety that was completely alien to him. Last time he'd been here, Lilly had told him that she hated hospitals, and it had struck him as one of the oddest things he'd ever heard leave her lips; right now, though, he had to agree with her. For the first time in his career, he suddenly found himself looking round, and hating the place with a passion that stole his breath.

The feeling didn't abate, in fact growing all the more intense as some clueless nurse escorted him to Kat's room. It was such a strange sensation for him to be feeling – he, the guy who never allowed any situation to sway him, however unnerving it was – and, hard as he tried, he simply couldn't shake it. He waited for a few long moments outside the door, watching as the nurse ran away, and trying to steady himself for what he was about to see. He remembered all too clearly how he'd felt, visiting Lilly for the first time after she'd been shot. She'd been so pale, so helpless, so fragile. She'd been everything that people assumed she'd be before they got to know her, that he and the rest of the team laughed at them for assuming. Some helpless little blonde, playing Homicide Detective? Yeah, right. They didn't know the real Lilly Rush, and seeing her in that hospital bed had been the first time that Nick Vera had seen in her that helpless little blonde that they insisted she was. It had shocked him almost senseless to see her so reduced, and the thought that he might be about to see that same fragility in Kat scared him almost more than he – in his infinite machismo – could stand.

As it turned out, the decision to stay outside the room or venture inside was promptly taken out of his hands by a strained (and yet notably annoying and impatient) cry from the other side of the door. "You plannin' to hang around out there all day, Vera, or were you gonna come in and say hello?"

In that instant, all the doubt and worry in Vera's mind dissolved. He should've known better than to think some lame bullet would've been enough to rip the attitude out of Kat Miller, and the hospital-induced discomfort melted away as he pushed the door open, not even bothering to ask how she'd known he was standing there (whatever the situation, however obscure, she _always_ knew). Despite himself, he paused in the doorway to brace himself for her appearance, before raising his eyes to take it in with a fake smile.

She did look fragile. He didn't want to admit it, much less allow the emotion to touch his face (which would inevitably result in her once again threatening to kick his ass for looking at her that way), but it was true. She had the look of someone who needed to be comforted and protected, and it almost broke his heart to see that in her, hard as she was blatantly trying to sustain her usual air of streetwise coolness.

He had to bite his tongue to keep from commenting on the way she looked; so pale he could almost believe she was a white chick who'd gone overboard with the perma-tan, and with eyes so haunted despite their hardness that he almost wondered if she'd taken more than a bullet from the bastard. She looked at him with the expression – despite her best efforts to remain the badass Kat Miller he knew – of a true victim, and the sight of her just hardened him further against Lilly for abandoning her in favour of Scotty, as deeply as he cared for the man too. But, of course, he knew she wouldn't thank him from commenting on any of these things right then, so he kept the words inside for the time being, instead opting to hold up the donut box like some kind of peace offering. "Brought you a present," he said, not even bothering to offer up the 'hello' she'd demanded.

The hurt in her eyes faded for a moment as she studied the box he dropped unceremoniously into her lap, replaced instead with an undisguised suspicion. Moving very slowly, seemingly as if she expected a bunch of trick snakes to pop out of it, she pulled the lid off and examined the contents with the same sort of critical studiousness he saw her apply so frequently to evidence. He leaned against the wall, fighting back a smile as he watched her study the box and the donuts, waiting for her to accept the fact that, no, there wasn't some mean practical joke inside the box and, yes, he'd just done a nice thing for her. He waited, not at all surprised by the amount of time she took to study every last donut (he _was_ Nick Vera, after all), before, at long last—

"Nice try, smartass." She glared at him. "Where's my donut?"

For just a second, he was speechless. Of all the questions she could've asked him, that one hadn't even been on the radar. "I got you a whole _box_ of 'em. How many more do you want?"

"Just one," she explained, in such a condescending and simplistic tone of voice that Vera couldn't help feeling like a small child being taught Algebra for the very first time. "_My_ donut. You come waltzing in here with a great big new box of new donuts, for no apparent reason, and clearly my donut ain't in here. So I'm forced to ask you…" She ran her eyes over him, and he felt like a criminal. "…and you _know_ I'm only gonna ask this once, so you sure as hell better come out with something good." He wanted to point out that he was very happy she wasn't letting the giant bullet hole dampen her detective's instincts any, but he had a feeling that any backchat right now would just land him in even more hot water. "Did you or did you not eat my donut?"

He didn't realise, until she raised a pointed eyebrow at him, that his mouth had fallen open in utter disbelief. "You… I… you…" he stammered, unable to control the words as they spilled from him. "I bought you the biggest goddamn box of donuts in Philadelphia… and that ain't good enough for you?"

She sighed impatiently, which was a bad mistake on her part. Her eyes flashed, bright with pain, and her entire body stiffened with the sensation; the donuts forgotten, he felt his heart break a little at the sight of it, and it took all the self-discipline he had to keep from rushing to her side. But he didn't, knowing perfectly well that it wouldn't do any good for either of them if he did that, and instead just stood there and waited for her to regain control of herself as best she could. "What'd I say, Vera?" she asked, when she'd righted herself, but he could see the fractures running through her all too clearly now. "Just said one thing – '_don't eat my donut'_. You can bring me all the donuts in Philly, won't change the fact you ate the only one I told you not to eat."

For the second time in an hour, Vera had to resist the temptation to punch the nearest wall. "This is the thanks I get for doin' a nice thing?" he muttered. "I should've just kept being a jerk." He watched as she leaned back into the pillows, almost disappearing into them, and had to remind himself that – for once – he was the wronged party here; she'd never forgive him if he backed down now. "All right, fine. Yeah, I ate your stupid donut. And then I felt bad about it. And, y'know what? I could've just bought you a replacement donut, but no… I figured I'd do a nice thing, save the whole damn box, 'cause I knew you'd be mad. But, of course, that's not good enough." He pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed dramatically. "I dunno why I bother."

The explosion seemed to have the desired effect, and she visibly softened. "Yeah," she said, so softly he had to strain to hear it. "You really shouldn't have." The anger flared behind her eyes again, but he could see that it wasn't directed at him this time, something for which he was eternally grateful; he was fast reaching a point whereby, if he was accosted by any more unjustly furious women today, he'd be liable to crack. The question was, though, where it actually was directed, since he was the only other person in the room; it was an issue he didn't have time to think about, as her expression changed again before he had the chance to dwell on it. "Here," she said eventually, and held out the box for him. "You better eat 'em before they go bad."

"You're not even gonna have one?" he asked. She shook her head, carefully, and he frowned. "Look, I get it. I ate your donut and it pissed you off. But that's no reason to deny yourself a new one." He shook the box at her. "C'mon, Miller. What's done is done; no use pouting over it." Shaking the box again, he pulled out a particularly appetising one, and held it out for her. "Come on, now. You know you wanna."

She glared at him then, with a fierceness that left him genuinely expecting to find himself on the receiving end of a backhand. It didn't last, though, her physical exhaustion getting the better of her. Scarcely before she had the chance to fully embody the scowl, it had dissolved, replaced by a depth of misery he'd never seen in her. And, in that moment, he knew exactly why she was so furious, the relief causing an involuntary belly laugh to course through him, albeit one laced with sympathy. This, of course, saw a return to the glare and – had she not been so worn out and pained – she probably would've slugged him then, but it would've been worth it. He closely studied the donut he'd been offering her, and unceremoniously stuffed it in his mouth.

"You're not mad at me," he said, victoriously. "You're secretly all kinds of flattered that I'd bring you a whole box of donuts instead of just one. Aren't ya?"

"Shut up," she grumbled, but it was sadly lacking in her usual wrath.

"No way," he said, grinning like a Cheshire cat as he relished the donut; it was a tough kind of love, he knew, but tough love was exactly the sort of love that worked best on Kat Miller, and he knew she'd thank him so much more for being brutal than she would if he'd suddenly turned into the sympathetic shoulder. "You're not mad at me, you're mad at yourself. 'Cause you wanna say '_Oh, THANK you, Nicky! This is the most delightful box of donuts I've ever had the good fortune to receive'_, right?" Okay, so maybe he was pushing things a little too far, pushing his voice way beyond its highest range to try and impersonate her, there. "But you can't do that. 'Cause, firstly, that'd be admitting I did somethin' nice. And secondly…" He let his eyes wander to the chart at the foot of her bed, and his grin widened even more. "You know you couldn't eat 'em. You're on, what, a dozen different meds all at once, right? And you probably can't even manage to keep down the cafeteria Jell-O in this place… so there's no way in hell you could manage a great big fried donut right now." As his smirk widened, so too did her scowl, and he knew he was right because she hadn't yelled at him yet, so he pressed on in sheer spite. "And it's just tearin' you apart that I'm standin' here, doing this really nice thing for you, and all you wanna do is to eat that whole damn box all by yourself, without even offering me one… but you know you couldn't keep 'em down."

For a long while, she didn't say anything, instead allowing the glare to say everything for her. Eventually, and when it became apparent to her that he wasn't about to let her wriggle out of this one without thinking up a comeback – bullet wound or no goddamn bullet wound, he sure as hell wasn't about to take it easy on her, just as he knew she would be giving it twice as bad if he were the one lying there – she gave up the feint at silence, and shook her head in utter disgust. "You're a jackass, Vera. I hope you choke on them."

"Nah, you don't," he replied, planting his backside indecorously upon the bed next to her, and giving her the most patronising pat on the head he could manage.

"Yeah, I do," she muttered, sustaining her trademark cynicism, even as her expression faltered into one markedly more unhappy; it was a look that clearly said '_All I want in the whole world is a goddamn donut, and I can't even have that'_, and he had to fight to keep from letting the sympathy overpower him. That was the last thing she'd want, he knew, even as she let out a miserable sigh.

He smiled sadly, and let his arm drift down the back of her neck to rest lazily across her shoulders. "Hey, now," he said, in his rarely-used compassionate voice (though, even as he dusted off that most empathetic of voices, he couldn't quite keep himself from reaching for a second donut with his free hand; damn, but they were good). "I dunno if it'll help at all," he went on, picking his words carefully – or, as carefully as Nick Vera ever picked his words, "and I don't make this offer to just anyone, y'know… so you better be thankful." She smiled wryly at that, but the expression faded faster than he could catch it as he continued with his characteristic Nick Vera smirk, "If you wanna try one… I promise I'll hold your hair back."

Quite deservedly, she gave him the finger.

After that, neither of them tried to say anything. Vera gradually worked his way through the remainder of the donut box, and Miller gave him the occasional jealous scowl. It was, he couldn't help thinking, the perfect end to the entire fiasco. He knew her, probably better than anyone else on the team, and he knew her well enough to know that a nice sweet gesture wasn't gonna cut it for her. It'd make her feel helpless and weak and just like the kind of victim who needed other people's nice sweet gestures and their sympathy and their goddamn boxes of goddamn donuts. It wouldn't have helped, in the long run. This, on the other hand, helped. It gave her something new to be mad at him for, even if it wasn't really _him_ she was mad at. It gave her a reason to glare and scowl and give him the finger and all that vicious catty stuff she enjoyed. It brought out the fighting side of her, the ruthless side, the side that she loved to bring out in herself, and the side that he secretly loved to see in her. It made her glow with resolve, and that glow lit her up from within; it illuminated even the paleness and the haunted look in her eyes and the pain that shone through so clearly even in spite of the dozen meds, and all that weakness he'd seen in her before. It was the sort of effect nobody else could bring out in her, and seeing it shine now, as a result of his so-called insensitivity, he felt prouder than he had of almost anything else he'd done in his life.

Eventually, of course, the moment had to end… and, as was often the case with these things, it didn't just end, but instead shattered into a thousand pieces. "How's Scotty?" she asked.

The question struck an unwanted chord with Vera, and he tried to keep from remembering his conversation with Lilly. "He's fine," he shrugged, not even hiding the lie. "Lil's with him."

She turned her head slightly, allowing herself to lean back against his arm as she frowned in obvious disbelief. "He's fine?" she repeated, cynical. "You serious?"

Vera shrugged again. "He ain't the one who got shot," he pointed out, allowing his voice to adopt that no-nonsense tone he'd tried and failed to use against Lilly. "He can't be that bad."

There was a familiar fire in her eyes as she regarded him now and, despite the seriousness of the situation, he felt a little relieved to see it. "You really don't have a damn clue, do you?"

"Look…" He knew she'd deck him for it, but he nonetheless allowed that elusive sympathy to slip into every facet of himself as he shifted his body to look down at her. "I get it. Valens had it bad back there. Lil says so. You say so. But he ain't the one who landed himself in hospital, is he?" She opened her mouth to argue, but he held up a half-eaten donut in warning, and she quickly shut it again. "Not sayin' Scotty don't need Lil's help right now. Not even saying he didn't have it bad. I'm sure he did. And I think it's real sweet that he's the guy you're worryin' about, even though he's got Lil covering him already. Real chivalrous of you, Miller." He exhaled, letting that point sit for a moment, and let his arm tighten ever so slightly over her shoulders; some might call the motion 'protective', but he didn't buy that crap. He just didn't want his arm getting tired, was all. "All I'm sayin' is, he's got his girls watching his back. He don't need me doin' it too. That ain't what us guys do. We buy each other a beer and we laugh it off, and we leave the whining and whimpering to the ladies."

Kat flushed darkly at that, and Vera couldn't hide the smile that formed at the sight of that natural colour rushing its way back to her face. "Charming."

"I'm not done yet," he said softly, and smiled as she lapsed back into silence, though the angry feminist flush didn't leave her face. "Point is, Valens got enough people watchin' his back… and he ain't the one lyin' in a hospital bed, on so many damn meds he can't even eat a donut." She was watching him intently now, and he took a deep breath; he wasn't great at this sort of thing at the best of times, and this situation was making it all the more difficult for him. "I love Scotty, right? Like a brother. A goofy-lookin' brother, who needs his ruggedly handsome big bro to show him the ropes every now an' then… but a brother nonetheless. But he ain't the one…" He paused, wishing he could have one of those beers right now, and suddenly found a speck of dust on the blanket to be deeply fascinating and worthy of his attention. "He ain't the one I was scared I'd never see again."

He could feel her eyes on him, but didn't raise his until she took the matter into her own hands (literally), tilting his chin up and forcing him to face her. He didn't know what he'd expected to see there, when his eyes finally met hers, but he sure as hell hadn't expected tears. But there they were, and he fought back the temptation to pull her close and rock her in his arms and tell her everything was gonna be all right because, even through the tears that now shone so bright they almost left him blind, she was still Kat Miller, and she could still cripple him with a well-timed slap if she wanted to. But, right then, she looked so small and so frightened and in so much pain that he could see it pulsing through those dark eyes like liquid electricity now tracing a course down the side of her face, hard as she tried to stop it and hard as he willed it to stop. And it wasn't her. It wasn't the Kat Miller he knew so well, the Kat Miller who could take a hit from a Boeing 747 and still come up with a witty retort. It was the Kat Miller that had been lying there alone and miserable when he'd first walked into that hospital room and tried so hard not to see. It was the Kat Miller he'd been scared for and worried about, the Kat Miller everyone had said didn't exist 'cause she was fine and Scotty was the one in need of help. It was the Kat Miller who'd had to fight all her own suffering alone because it was Scotty, Scotty, Scotty who'd needed help, and she was goddamn Kat Miller, and she could convince the whole damn world she was fine, but she couldn't fool Nick Vera.

Then she spoke, so softly he had to strain to hear it. "I'm not goin' anywhere…" —The words were enough to undo him right then; he was Nick Vera, and Nick Vera didn't cry, but all of a sudden his tears were mingling with hers. And, even through her faltering resolve and the inner strength that had carried her so far and simply couldn't carry her any further, she continued, causing both of them to erupt into tear-spattered laughter for just one precious moment— "…you sentimental jackass."

* * *

**TBC**

_A/N: That was much longer than I'd expected it to be, so apologies for that... but, once Vera got into my head and I let him get mad, he just would. not. shut. up._


	16. Burning Bridges

_A/N: As per usual, thanks for all the feedback to the usual awesome suspects – and, in particular, Sawyer. Wow!! Reading through every single chapter and throwing out a great detailed review for all of them, all in one sitting (and at 5am!) must've been beyond exhausting… but all your feedback was massively appreciated, and I really can't thank you enough for putting yourself through that, and for taking the time to share all your thoughts. :-D_

**16.  
Burning Bridges**

* * *

"Hey."

Scotty opened one eye. The effort it took for him to take that one simple action was almost tangible, and it broke Lilly to see it. "Don't say that," he said, in a hoarse whisper.

He didn't move, but Lilly hadn't been expecting him to. The fact that he'd opened his eye had, as far as she was concerned, been a huge step forward in itself; asking for anything more than that would've been demanding too much. He'd barely moved at all since she'd brought him home; after insisting that she let him go to bed, and once more reiterating his request that she stay with him, he'd done nothing but lay there, eyes closed and breathing shallow. It was the saddest thing Lilly Rush had ever seen.

By her own admission, she wasn't the best person to deal with emotional trauma. Having to deal with her own was difficult enough – and, more often than not, it was something she made a pointed effort not to do – but she was in new territory here, helping Scotty deal with his. The human psyche was a strange and fragile thing, she knew, and she'd always rather prided herself on being able to see through the barriers that her suspects put up, and see the emotions and the thoughts behind their words and their actions. But that was different; it was always different when she could look at her own insights and cast them off as a bi-product of doing her job. That distinction was vital, as a murder cop, to sustain her own sanity. Digging so deep inside such darkness, staring for so long into the Abyss… if she didn't make that distinction between genuine insight and psychological profiling that was a curious but necessary part of her chosen career, the Abyss really would claim her.

It was so much harder now, not having that barrier to hide behind (not hide exactly, she reminded herself, because she didn't hide from anything). In that interrogation room, she could make sense of anything, however messed up and however disturbed… but here, in the home of her partner, who needed her so desperately to make sense of the chaos in his mind, she was at a loss. Just as she'd always been at a loss to piece together the fractured emotional pieces of her own dysfunctional family; she'd always known, if she'd ever had reason to slap a 'cold job' label on her own sordid life story, then she would – suddenly and miraculously – be able to piece all those intricacies and bad experiences and hurtful thoughts, into something resembling a resolution. She'd be able to cope with her mother's death, and she'd be able to cope with her sister's general existence. She'd be able to cope with every bad thing that had ever happened to her, for which she'd always blamed the people she'd grown up with. And she'd be able to write 'closed' on an imaginary box, and live happily ever after. But, to do all that, when there wasn't a murder involved, or suspects to interview, or motives to consider?

That was Lilly Rush. She wasn't just a workaholic, and she wasn't just one of those people who loved her job. Her job, with all the psychopaths and rapists and drug-dealers and all the twisted chaos that came with all that, was the one thing in her life that was rational and calming. Even now, still reeling from the nightmares and trauma left over from her shooting (in the observation room, no less, and there was no doubt in her mind that the whole thing had been made all the more harrowing for having happened on her own turf, in her own safe haven), even now she found shelter from all that in a particularly fascinating case. Even now, her own emotional confusion could be cast aside or dealt with, just through analysing the emotional confusion of others; and it frustrated her more than she could express that she couldn't find it within herself to do the same now with Scotty, who needed those insights (her insights, and only hers) more than any victim she'd ever helped.

It was always different when it was personal, and it didn't get much more personal than this. Everyone knew that Scotty Valens wasn't the picture of mental health when it came to dealing with his own issues, and – in some way – that just cemented in Lilly's mind the similarities between the two of them. Neither had a particularly great track record when it came to coping methods, and she couldn't help thinking it was something of a miracle that the two of them had survived their professional partnership for more than five minutes, let alone five years and five billion ups and downs. And she supposed it meant _something_ that she did care for him – even after everything he'd done with Christina, after discovering his moment of unprofessional weakness in his feelings for Ana Castilla, after every one of his supposed screw-ups – and still believed him more than deserving of all that care and more besides. She'd be the first to admit to being disdainful of him when he'd first showed up, bragging about how they did things over at West, but he'd proven himself time and again to be the best damn partner she could ever hope for. And it killed her a little to know that she didn't have a damn clue how to help him now.

"Hey," she repeated.

She'd known it would anger him, but that was exactly what she wanted. He'd been so lethargic, so listless, so void of anything, any reaction at all would be a good one by comparison. And she sure as hell got a reaction now; both of his eyes snapped open and, while he made no effort to sit up, he nonetheless made the point of ensuring his gaze was fixed icily on her. When he spoke, his voice was coarse through lack of use, but the anger carried through well enough to give her hope. "I thought I told ya not to say that_._"

"You did…" she said, plainly and simply, "and I said it anyway."

"Lil," he said, and – in spite of the fact that he'd been sleeping, on and off, for almost a full twenty-four hours – his voice was dripping with depthless exhaustion. "Don't do this."

"Why not?" she asked, softly. There was a hint of something accusatory in her voice, but it was undercut by a softness that she hoped would smooth over the roughness of it. "You said, if I needed you, all I had to do was say 'hey'." She shrugged, let her hand drop to the bed, the edge of it just brushing against the edge of his, so lightly that it could almost be seen as accidental. "I need you, Scotty. I need you to be you again. I need you to come back from this and be the Scotty Valens we all know. You made a promise, and I intend to see you keep it. You can't take it back now, just because the rules of the game have changed."

"It ain't a game," he said bitterly, and his eyes closed again with a heaviness that led her to wonder if they'd ever open again. "Why in the hell can't you women get that through your heads?" Part of her expected him to give up the ghost after that, and leave her again to battle with oppressive silence, but he persevered. "It's over, Rush. I screwed up last time, and I screwed up this time." He rolled over, with a great force of will, so he was facing the wall. "People put their trust in me an', every damn time, I let 'em get hurt." He sighed, his entire body shaking with the force. "I ain't playin' that way no more. Go say 'hey' to someone else."

This was a conversation Lilly had never imagined needing to have with him. Oh, she knew him well enough by now to know all about his tendency to blame himself for everything that happened to go wrong around him, but she'd never imagined needing to confront him. It had always just been a part of who he was. Just like she was the girl who'd come into work at 6am and leave at 7am the following morning, because the alternative was going home and being alone with her cats and her nightmares; just like Vera was the guy who could somehow fail to notice all the warning signs that his marriage was ending, when it was so damn obvious that a blind man could see it; just like Jeffries was the guy who'd seen and experienced so much over the course of his life that he was the only one among them who could truly appreciate how damn good they had it. That was just part of who they were, part of what made them a team that worked so well together, their flaws being complemented by others' strengths. And the self-loathing thing, that was just Scotty's flaw. As long as she'd known him, he'd battled with it, and she'd only ever seen him landing on his feet; she hadn't thought in a million years (or maybe she just hadn't wanted to consider the possibility) that all those small and silly moments of guilt and self-directed anger would one day resurface, all at the same time, and engulf him completely. He was Scotty; he got angry, first at the situation, then at himself, and that anger fired his soul and left him blazing for days at a time… but it always burned itself out. He always found some new thing to catch the spark of his attention, someone new to hate, and he always managed to pull himself back from the edge. But now, she couldn't imagine anything that could save him. Fitzpatrick had taken the rawest essence of everything that made Scotty Valens tick, and set it alight.

"Scotty…" she began, but couldn't find the words to follow it.

When she looked at him, she saw the man she'd worked with for five years. Yeah, that guy screwed up, a _lot_. Yeah, he did stupid things, and made stupid decisions, and occasionally screwed up so bad that it made her sick to look at him. But she always came around. Even when he'd done the worst thing she could've imagined – namely, her sister – she'd come around in the end. Because he was, at the very root of it all, a good man. A man she knew, when it all came down to it, she could trust with her life. Yeah, he screwed up. Yeah, everyone screwed up… but Scotty was the guy you'd place your bets on always coming good in the end. He was the guy who made stupid decisions, but not with cruelty or malice, just through simple lack of thinking. He was a good guy, with a good heart, and he didn't deserve the pain that he seemed so intent on inflicting upon himself. He was a better person than he let himself be, and the worst part was that he just didn't seem to realise it.

Simple fact was, when he looked at himself, the guy he saw wasn't the guy she saw. It wasn't the guy Kat had no doubt seen even when she was bleeding half to death. It wasn't the guy Stillman had seen when he'd offered to take that unpaid leave in his place. All he could see was the mistakes, the bad decisions, the people getting hurt. And no amount of gentle talk or reassurance or faith in the world could be enough to convince him that it wasn't his fault; he'd screwed up, yes, but that was a whole separate issue to the one whereby people ended up in hospital or the local mortuary. He couldn't martyr himself for all the suffering he'd ever witnessed, or he really would go insane, but that was exactly what he was doing, and Lilly Rush really and truly didn't have a damn clue how to make him see that he simply wasn't that guy. And she loathed herself for that, with almost as much power as she'd seen in his own self-hating eyes those rare moments he allowed them to meet hers.

"You got any eggs?" she asked, eventually.

For a few very long moments, deathly silence descended on the room. In a way, it was a reassuring sort of silence, the kind that had been brought about by such a random and seemingly pointless question that it carried with it a wholly different air to the melancholy that had been hanging over them previously. Finally, after the silence had stretched almost to breaking point, Scotty rolled over once again, this time facing her squarely in the eye with a look that said, if she kept asking questions like that, then maybe – just maybe – he would find the will to sit up after all. "The hell you want eggs for?" he grumbled.

She shrugged, a half-smile playing on her lips. "I was gonna make breakfast. Kinda in an omelette mood." She eyed him thoughtfully. "Feel like helping me out?"

"You were gonna make omelettes?" he asked, and for the first time since she and the SWAT team had rescued him, there was something other than guilt or pain or heartbreak or rage in his voice. The disbelief that now flooded him throughout was almost tangible, and she revelled in all of it. For the first time since she'd found him, he sounded almost human again. "_You_, Lilly Rush, were gonna _cook_ something?"

The half-smile grew ever so slightly, and she nodded. "Yeah." She let the word hang on the air for a moment, giving him time to absorb it. "You want one, too?"

With that question, the moment was broken, and that same guilt-ridden shattered Scotty was back. "Nah." He visibly deflated, his body sinking back against the bed as if he was a balloon she'd stuck a pin into. "Not hungry." A small sound escaped him, barely audible, too soft to be a sigh but not soft enough to be an exhalation. Lilly cursed silently at this regression. "Go knock yourself out."

She sighed, frustrated. "Scotty. You need to eat something. Or _do_ something. You need to get out of bed; you need to face this, and deal with it." Her hand pressed just a little harder against the edge of his. "You wanted me to stick around, but you won't let me in." And now she gave up all hope of pretending the contact was accidental, her fingers curling around the back of his hand. "You're not the only one who comes running 'cause I say 'hey'," she went on. "It works both ways. I'm right here, just waiting for you to call me, and we both know you want to and you need to and that's why you asked me to stick around… but you're too damn stubborn to come out and say it, 'cause you've got it into your head that you're the guy and the guy isn't allowed to be the one who needs help." She grasped his hand firmly now, feeling his muscles tense beneath hers. "It's okay to need help, Scotty. It's okay to be the one who's picking up the phone. It's okay to be the one who says 'hey'."

"Like it makes a difference," he muttered, and the bitterness cut through the air like a blade. "Didn't make any when you were the one sayin' it to me, did it, now?"

Lilly felt herself deflating, too, at that. "Scotty," she said. "You've gotta let that go. I'm still here, aren't I? And, if you didn't show up when you did, who knows whether I would be?" She leaned over the bed watching him steadily even as he tried to avert his eyes again. "You weren't the reason he shot me, Scotty. You're the reason he didn't kill me."

"Yeah?" he growled, the mania rising once again in him like a wave of heat, and showing beyond all doubt that he didn't believe a word she said. "An' what if that's true, Lil? Say, okay, I didn't let you down. You gonna say the same about Ana Castilla? Gonna say the same about Elisa? About Miller? About my goddamn brother?" He sat up then, the gesture striking Lilly almost simultaneously as a cause for relief and for concern. "It's _always_ my fault, Lil. I screw up, an' people like you start coverin' for me, tellin' me it ain't my fault… an' I start believin' you 'cause I really wanna believe that maybe I'm just unlucky. Y'know, maybe bad things just kinda happen around me an' it really ain't my fault. But one day you gotta wake up. Ain't no-one _that_ unlucky, Lil."

In spite of herself, Lilly felt the frustration rising again, and she ran a hand through her hair. She couldn't figure out whether she was more annoyed with Scotty for not listening, or at herself for being so crappy at this 'getting through to him' thing. Either way, she was clearly getting nowhere following this track, so she gave up. "Look. I'm gonna go make that omelette, and I have no idea where you keep anything in that bomb-site you call a kitchen… so, if you feel like coming down and helping out a little…"

She didn't waste time waiting on a response that was no doubt never going to come, instead making her retreat and using every ounce of willpower at her disposal to keep from looking back over her shoulder. Quick as she'd been to describe his kitchen as a bomb-site, she knew damn well (and he knew it too) that it was in a far better state than her own. Lilly Rush and home cooking didn't mix, and she'd rather hoped that mentioning her desire to engage in that particular activity in the first place would've been enough to drag him out of his depression and convince him to put his own concerns aside for just long enough to keep her from blowing his kitchen to Kingdom Come; ideally, that would've come long before this, and the thought that she would now have to try and make good on her threats of making food (why, oh why, had she said 'omelette'?) wasn't one she found particularly welcome. Still, if nothing else, it would give her a change of scenery, however slight, and allow her a moment to catch her breath after the intensity of taking care of a guy who had no intention of being taken care of.

"Eggs…" she murmured to herself, thoughtfully, using the words to fill the void of silence more than to actually remind herself of the ingredients for an omelette.

Working her way through every cupboard and drawer in the kitchen was, in its own way, a soothing task. The search for something, however simple it was, gave her purpose and drive, and they in turn helped to focus her mind; as much as she hated cooking ('hate' not actually being a strong enough term), it was pretty effective at a time like this to bring her back into the real world – a place she was often at odds with, given the nature of her profession, but one which (every now and then) did seem to have its uses. And, okay, so maybe it aided her optimism somewhat that she was making a conscious effort to take things as slowly as possible, in the vain hope that Scotty would come to his senses and bail her out before she actually had to do anything.

It didn't come to pass that way, of course, and she supposed she really should've looked at the situation from all angles and expected that. Almost before she knew what was going on, she found herself waging war against a burn frying pan filled with burnt eggs (and weren't eggs supposed to be the one goddamn food that couldn't burn!?), and trying to figure out how the hell she'd failed to see this disaster coming. If he'd taken the bait and come to lend a hand, maybe Scotty would've taken some comfort in the realisation that he wasn't the only one who screwed up and, as she uttered a silent prayer that the rising smoke wouldn't set off whatever sprinkler or alarm system he had installed, she couldn't help noting the irony in that.

There wasn't much that could reduce Lilly Rush to a quivering wreck, but the concept of having to actually cook was sure as hell one of them. Scotty knew that, she was sure, because _everyone_ knew that. He should've been here to bail her out, and she felt a small flash of irritation rising within her as she gave up any attempts at salvaging the decimated frying pan (she'd buy him a new one if he ever recovered or ever noticed the damn thing was missing, both of which seemed to be growing more and more doubtful with every passing minute). She'd baited herself for him, had been willing – and this wasn't something to be taken lightly at all, by anyone – to set herself up for culinary humiliation, all for the sake of making him see that she too was mortal and capable of screwing up, and he hadn't even had the dignity to thank her for it. And she was worried about him, and scared for his well-being, and she wanted nothing more than to make him feel better, but he simply wasn't _helping_… and, for just a single broken moment, she found herself wondering if all this – the frustration, the aching desire to help, and the hopeless knowledge that there wasn't a damn thing that _could_ help – was what he'd been through with Elisa, every damn day. The thought only serving to heighten the perplexities already playing out at full volume through her mind, and she let out an angry sigh and hurled the frying pan into the trash-can.

"Hey…!"

The sound catching her so completely off-guard, she whirled around in such a hurry that she almost missed him entirely. He stood there, looking like a china doll that would shatter into a thousand pieces if she so much as took a breath near him, and stared at her with wide eyes and a hint of anger still sparking behind his eyes. It was the most beautiful sight she could've hoped for, and it took every ounce of self-control she had not to run at him and pull him into the biggest hug he would have ever seen. Instead, in a perfect mirror of him, she too allowed herself to just stand there, wrapped in smoke and the lingering smell of her butchered omelette, and let the radiance shine from her face, beaming with the joy of seeing him there.

"Did… did you say 'hey'…?" she asked, scarcely above a whisper.

He frowned. There was a sluggishness about him, the air of someone who had spent twenty-four hours sleeping and who wanted nothing more than to go back to sleep for another week. But, through all that, she could see the resolve that had brought him down there in the first place, the acceptance of what she'd told him before leaving, and the sad realisation that he just couldn't sleep without her beside him.

"I guess," he said, speaking very slowly, in a voice laced with exhaustion. "But I didn't mean— I just meant, y'know, '_hey! you're trashin' my frying pan!'_."

She smiled nonetheless. "Doesn't matter why," she pointed out, studying the confusion on his face as he struggled to absorb the fact of the matter. "What matters is that you said it."

"Guess I did…" he said, thoughtfully.

There was no denial in his voice, only heavy confusion; it seemed almost as if his body had dragged him to her with no consent from his brain – which, from the look of him, was still in bed – and was now trying to figure out why in the hell it had done so. He looked so vulnerable standing there, his face that of a small boy struggling to understand his place in the world, and all her previous grievances were forgotten in an instant, overshadowed by the desire to rush to his side and pull him into the warmest hug she could. It was a temptation she resisted, however, instead opting to keep that safe distance and allowing him his personal space (for the time being, at least) to come to grips with where he was now. She couldn't coddle him now, she knew, not until he asked for it. The fact that he was there was enough, for now, to prove that he'd come to that realisation on his own… and the fact that he had – reflexively or otherwise – uttered the one word he'd been so violently opposed to was enough to fuel the fire of hope within her. If she was willing and able to be patient (not her finest trait, she had to admit, but it was one she was working on), then – despite initial appearances – he wasn't beyond saving.

Giving him distance had worked, where trying to get through to him had failed. Her entreats had been met with resistance and anger, but – as much as she could see it made him furious to acknowledge – the simple fact was that he'd asked her to stay because he'd needed her there, and that was exactly why he stood there now. Oblivious to his own actions, having arrived their seemingly under the influence of some instinct so deep that even he himself couldn't quite figure it out. She'd almost believed, as time had passed and she'd found herself dealing with burnt eggs without any sign of him coming to her rescue, that he'd evolved beyond even that need for her, but once again he'd proved her wrong and come through, not in time to save her or his frying pan, but in time to allow her another chance at helping him through. And, while she was still secretly terrified of that responsibility – still believing herself unable to deal with emotions, on any level, outside the professional workplace, and still believing that he needed so much more than she could give in any case – she renewed her vows to herself that she wouldn't give up on him. He clearly hadn't given up on her, in spite of his stubborn refusal to acknowledge the truth in her earlier words, so she sure as hell wouldn't give up on herself either.

She still didn't approach him, merely stood there and smiled. "Good to see you out of bed," she said softly, and her words carried a faith in him that couldn't be shaken by any amount of his own pessimism. He didn't return her smile, or her faith, but there was something new in him now as he watched the smile play across her face. She couldn't place what it was, and was fairly sure that – even if she could – it didn't have a name, but it strengthened her resolve all the more to see it there. He didn't need to have faith in himself because, right at that moment, she had enough faith for both of them. "Now, how 'bout that omelette?"

* * *

**TBC**

_A/N: __Once again, I'm not exactly pleased with how this chapter turned out. It __didn't get anywhere near the point I was hoping it would… mainly because Scotty was being his usual stubborn and uncooperative self. So I suppose I'm just gonna have to dedicate another chapter to these two; what a shame! ;-)_


	17. The World I Know

_A/N: As usual, countless thanks for all the feedback; it's still very very very much appreciated. Sorry this one took so long; it was a real challenge to write (and I mean that in the good, inspired way), and I can only hope I actually got my ideas down in a vaguely coherent manner. I should probably, once again, warn that it touches on some of the slightly darker themes present in this fic. As ever, nothing too hardcore, but it isn't really 'light' reading._

**17.  
The World I Know**

* * *

Scotty couldn't help wondering, as he set to work repairing the damage Lilly had done to his kitchen, how in the hell her attempts to make him feel better had managed to end with him cleaning up after her. A part of him – a very, very small part – knew it was a huge step forward that he was even out of bed at all, much less moving about the kitchen in a bid at doing something actually productive, and for that alone he imagined he had ample reason to be admiring of Lilly's talents. But the vast majority of his mind – at least, as much of it as wasn't occupied in silently cursing the loss of his frying pan – was still occupied with the darker thoughts. Why in the hell was he standing here, trying to make some damn omelette for Lilly Rush, when the only thing he really wanted to be doing was sleeping… and, of course, dwelling upon his own worthlessness?

The answer, he supposed, was obvious. She was Lilly Rush. The power she had was intangible, indefinable, and utterly inescapable. It was a power she'd had almost as long as he'd known her, and one she seemed to hold over everyone she came into contact with; he'd seen suspects and witnesses crumble beneath the weight of that innate effect, but had never imagined for a single moment that one day he might be doing the same. At least, not like this. It sure as hell wouldn't have been like this. If anything, it would've been with a 'hey' – not the kind that came with trouble, but the kind that just said 'be here' and allowed that simplicity to just be enough for both of them. A symbiosis, of sorts. That was all he'd wanted, all he ever wanted. He didn't know how that had suddenly twisted into this, but suddenly he was helpless in the face of that charisma she had, that power to make him do anything she wanted… and it wasn't fair, not on either of them, that _this_ was what it all came down to; her dragging him back from the darkest edges of his mind, her keeping him sane and keeping him from giving up completely. It shouldn't have bee like this. It should've been so much simpler.

He didn't say a word as he moved about the kitchen, feeling too intensely the heat of her eyes as they studied his movements. One of them would have to break the silence eventually, he knew, and he'd be damned if he would be the one to take on that responsibility. She always did the talking, right from Day One, and he wasn't about to change that now. He was here, and he was cooking; he had no appetite, and no intention to eat the omelette she was supposedly craving, but he was here and he was cooking it for her. That was enough action on his part, so far as he was concerned. If she wanted anything more out of him right then, she would have to reach out and take it from him by force. He was here, sure. He was moving and cooking and doing all those things he'd promised himself scant hours ago he would never do again, and it was a credit to her that he was even doing that, but there was a great distance between doing that and giving himself up to accept the help that she was offering. It would take more than a jaunt through the kitchen to make him give up that.

"You got mushrooms?" she asked, eventually, just the silence had begun to extend so long that Scotty was genuinely beginning to wonder whether they'd both lost the capacity for speech; as always, Lilly's sense of timing was almost scary. "Can't have an omelette without mushrooms."

Scotty rolled his eyes at that remark. "Yeah, you can."

If he was being completely honest with himself (which he most definitely wasn't, and had no intention of being), he would've had to admit to being slightly disappointed that the only comment she'd thought to make had been about the omelette. He'd told himself, time and time again, that wasn't going to open up to her, that his own inner demons were his to fight alone. He'd convinced himself that he was the guy, and guys dealt with their problems on their own terms, without any goddamn help from their partners. He'd made those points so many times inside his head that he couldn't imagine a situation wherein he didn't believe them; and yet, as she'd mentioned the mushrooms, a flash of disappointment had coursed through him irregardless.

It wasn't that he wanted her to try and break through his barriers, or even that he appreciated what she was trying to do for him (if anything, he told himself, he found it intrusive). It was simply that, well, he'd come to expect it. She was Lilly Rush; it was her job to understand people, to get inside their heads and absorb what they were thinking. It was part of who she was, just as it was part of who he was not to share those thoughts with anyone. And so, in a strange sort of way, to see her making a point of only mentioning such mundanities as food almost struck him with the sense that she'd given up trying to break through to him. Even though he'd told himself – and told her – that it was exactly what he wanted, he couldn't help being just a little dissatisfied to see it come to fruition. Like a family member who was particularly annoying and hated but remained a permanent fixture, it nonetheless struck him with sadness (and, in true Scotty Valens style, just a little anger) to suddenly not have it there. He'd taken for granted that she'd continue to push him, and – though he'd convinced both of them that he didn't want or need it – he felt all the more lost and alone now that he didn't have it.

He snuck a glance at her, caught the look in her eyes as she watched him. There was a brightness in her face, a sort of joy that seemed to him rather antithetical to the situation they were in. It was almost as if, for her, it was enough to just have him there. As if getting out of bed marked the whole struggle being won, and he couldn't help being a little saddened to realise that – if she really did believe that – maybe she didn't know him as well as he'd thought she did. She was Lilly Rush; when she put her mind to something, whatever the hell it was, she took it all the way and made damn sure it reached that perfect fairy-tale ending. Even the darkest depths that they'd explored as Homicide cops, the most twisted and perverted cases, she always made sure that – at the very least – they were brought to peace. But he didn't deserve that; she'd got him out of bed, and that was enough for her. It didn't matter that he didn't get his peace, his fairytale ending, 'cause suddenly Lilly Rush was content just to see him there. Of course. He wasn't one of her precious cases; of course he didn't get the same treatment. It was his own damn fault, really. He hadn't been killed fifty years ago; why in the hell would she care about him? The rage welled up in him again, and he shut the fridge door with unnecessary violence.

"You okay there, Scotty?" she asked, indifferently.

"Fine," he grunted through clenched teeth. A very small part of him knew perfectly well that all he had to do was give up and admit he needed help and she'd be there like a shot (the metaphor causing an involuntary shiver to course through him), but the irrational part of his mind – the part that was naturally so much bigger than all the rest – didn't want to dwell on the facts. He wanted her to worry about him, and he wanted her to stop worrying, and he wanted her to press him, and he wanted her to leave him alone, and he wanted all of those things at the same time, and it wasn't fair that she couldn't do all that at the same time. He knew it made no sense, but – and it made even less sense to be thinking this too, but he couldn't stop himself just as he couldn't stop the anger that continued to flow through him like lava – he found himself striving beyond all things sane to convince himself that it was her fault for not being able to care and not-care at the same time. Everything else was his fault, the guilt still battering at him from every angle; it made all the difference in the world to be blaming this one (the one thing, that tiny rational subconscious part of him pointed out and he firmly ignored, that actually _was_ his fault) on someone else. Sure, he was expecting the impossible, but he'd worked with her for five damn years, and he saw her achieve the impossible every day. So why couldn't she do it with him too?

Eventually, and inevitably, it reached a point where he simply couldn't endure any longer; he supposed she knew he wouldn't, and had no doubt been waiting for him to crack, but that offered him very little comfort at the moment, and it showed through in the darkness behind his voice as he finally spoke again. "I don't get why _I'm_ the one makin' _you_ an omelette. Ain't I the one who got tortured?"

If possible, the dazzling smile on her face grew wider at the question, as if he'd finally risen to some kind of bait that she'd been laying down for him. Blinded by it, he wanted to turn away, but found himself trapped by it like a fly in a spider's web. Subtly, the look on her face changing, the smile remaining but shifting ever so slowly into something more predatory; the simply joy at seeing him out of bed, while it didn't vanish entirely, seemed to be fading into the background in favour of something less pleasant.

"Are you?" she asked. "I thought that was Miller."

There was a smoothness in her voice as she said it, as if it was something she'd been planning for weeks and had finally got the opportunity to use. Scotty felt his teeth and fists clench at the words, the rage only fuelled further by the smugness that now painted itself in full across Lilly's face. She knew what she was doing; that was the worst part. She knew what she was saying, and she knew how it would affect him. She knew how furious it would make him, and that it would make him once again curl back in upon his own guilt and self-loathing, and yet she'd said it anyway. Worse still, hew knew she'd said it not in spite of all that, but _because_ of it. Because she'd tried everything she could think of to get him to open up, and she believed the only thing left was to push the buttons that she knew would cause the floodgates to open. And he hated her, then, for knowing him so well. For knowing how hard to hit and where, because he didn't want to open up, and he didn't want to loose those floodgates, because he knew (and no doubt she did too) that, once they did, they'd never close again. He'd wanted her to push him, to ask him to reveal himself; he wanted to feel her empathy and her compassion, and strike out against it because it was so much more cathartic than lashing out against himself. He'd wanted her to ease the guilt out of him, to ask him so many times to surrender it that he would finally get tired of fighting for it. He'd wanted her to push for it… and, deep inside, he'd known that she'd need to reach in, into his soul, and take it from him… but he hadn't expected it to be like that. He could never have anticipated that.

Though he knew what she was doing, and though every facet of his being screamed at him to resist that, he knew he didn't stand a chance. The rage had been rising steadily in him, and he realised that she'd been manufacturing that in him too, preparing him for this almost from the moment he'd set foot into his own damn kitchen. She'd known he could only be pushed so far before he started hitting back at whatever was pushing him, and that was what she'd wanted. The defeated, self-loathing Scotty who dwindled away in bed was of no use to her; he was irrational and couldn't be spoken to. The wild, furious Scotty who lashed out with primal violence at anything that angered him was what she needed, and it was too late for him now to be anything other than that, and to give in spite of himself everything she demanded of him.

Effortlessly, she'd brought the subject back round to the one thing he hadn't wanted to dwell upon; it was easy for him to focus on all his previous screw-ups – Elisa, Ana Castilla, even Mike to a lesser extent – if it meant keeping the focus away from what he'd borne witness to at the hands of Fitzpatrick. In a twisted reversal of his delusions back in that place, he now found Lilly dissolving before him, replaced by Kat; the wall behind her, previously spotless, was now spattered with blood. The only thing keeping him from closing his eyes to try and shut out the gruesome vision was the knowledge that it would still be there burned upon his mind's eye anyway. She stood there, in Lilly's place, as she'd stood there after Fitzpatrick had ordered her to stand, eyes bright and gleaming with resolve and determination, and it struck him almost physically to see it now and know how quickly that light would be replaced by a prayer for death. And, back then, he'd seen that determination as a beacon of hope. Something to shoot for, a measuring stick against which to brace his own resolve. If he'd known then what he knew now, how fast she'd fall, he would've begged Fitzpatrick to end her right then. Just another way in which the whole nightmare was his fault, and now he actually did shut his eyes, not to block out the image but to keep him from watching as he took action now that he only wished he could've taken then.

Almost against his own will, his fists tightened, knuckles turning white. Moving almost on impulse, the motion coming as fluidly as if he were suddenly made from water, he lunged forward with the wildness of someone who had no comprehension of what they were doing. Part of him knew it was Lilly there and not Kat, and that same part of him knew that – even if it _were_ Kat standing there instead – taking action now wouldn't change what had already come to pass, but he was beyond such rational thinking, and he drove himself forwards like a wildcat devouring its prey. If it was Lilly (as that part of him insisted it was), then all the better. It'd teach her, for telling him what he already knew. For using him like a chess piece to bring herself the moral victory, for forcing his emotions out against his own will, for using Kat's pain and his own guilt over that pain. Violence was a language that Scotty Valens spoke fluently and, at times like this, it was the only language he truly understood; the solidity, the ruthlessness, the simple act of feeling himself connect on a physical level with something that had caused pain, and of returning that pain by a hundredfold. Scotty Valens didn't understand emotions, least of all those as complicated as his own. But violence, he understood; it was more a part of him than emotion would ever be, and Lilly must've known that it was the only way of getting him to connect with himself, because here he was, driving himself and his fists forwards and through the apparition, and finally feeling almost alive again.

He felt his fists connect with something solid, and reared back to connect again and again. Howling and screaming and making countless other indefinable noises, dimly feeling the pain welling up underneath the skin of his fingers as he punched again and again and again, the rawness spilling out through his entire body, and fuelling his resolve. He had always known (as, he was sure, she must've done too) that, once the floodgates open, it would take a meteor to stop them, and right then there was no power in the world strong enough to make him back down. He'd been held back too long – first by Fitzpatrick and then, when he'd finally been freed from that prison, by his own goddamn team – enough was enough. He was free now, the blood pounding in his ears and through his veins and through every last infinitesimal part of him, roaring through and leaving him to wonder how in the world he'd ever survived without it. And he knew it would continue until he was broken, but it would be worth every moment of it, and he opened his eyes with a brutalised sort of triumph.

The vision of Kat had faded, as he knew it would, but Lilly didn't stand in front of him either. That shouldn't have surprised him, but the realisation triggered another flare of rage and he slammed his fists forward yet again in rebellion against her. He could still feel her eyes upon him, and knew she couldn't be far, and his eyes focussed thickly on the wall in front of him, spattered still with the blood from the vision… but this time, it was his blood, raw and fresh from his knuckles as he drove himself into it, even now, revelling in every crushing blow as it resounded heavily, knowing that he would be in agony for weeks to come and not caring in the slightest. And he could hear soft breathing now, Lilly standing behind him and watching in near-total silence, and he wanted to turn on her, but he knew – and it wasn't just a small part of him now, but every last facet of his being – that it didn't matter whether he was hitting her or Kat or Fitzpatrick or the wall. What mattered was that he was hitting something, and feeling the violence flow through him like molten fire, and releasing all the pain and the rage and the tears and burning through everything but the guilt. The guilt, so profound and so powerful that it stole his breath, and he found himself now falling to his knees, shattered and broken as he knew he would be, but at the same time feeling – for the first time since all this had started – like he'd actually _done_ something, and that feeling was worth all the agony and the exhaustion that now caught up with him, and he let loose one final scream from beneath the weight of it all until finally, he was left with nothing but that guilt.

In the resounding silence that followed, he almost drowned in the pulse of his own heartbeat. And then, through the numbness and stillness, from where she still stood (and, much as he wanted to, it was more than Scotty could do to raise his head and look at her), Lilly said, "Better?"

He shook his head. Any feint at pride he'd once had was gone now, with the anger and the pain. There was nothing left now but the guilt, and that was now desperate to make itself heard. He wanted to put his head in his hands, to hide his face, but his knuckles were raw and he couldn't move his fingers, so he settled for laying his head down on the ground and closing his eyes instead. "What he did to her…" he whispered, in a voice so hoarse he didn't even recognise it as his own, "…it was all 'cause of me." He could hear her drawing in a breath to argue the point, but he didn't give her the chance to articulate anything. "Don't. You know it's true. He was mad at me, I'm the one who screwed his life up, I'm the one he wanted his goddamn revenge on. She didn't mean nothin' to him, she was just… there." He sighed. "He hurt her 'cause he wanted me to see him do it, an' know that it was my fault. She wanted to _die_, Lil." At that revelation, Lilly inhaled sharply, the point clearly one that she hadn't been aware of, but he pressed on. "She was hurtin' so bad, she wanted to die."

Lilly was kneeling beside him now, hands firm upon his shoulders, and he could feel the grief radiating warmly from her. She didn't say anything, but he could sense the desire to do so within her, and knew that the only thing stopping her from pouring out more futile words of consolation was the understanding that it wouldn't help. That nothing would help, right now, more than sitting silent – even if it killed her inside to do so – and hear him speak his pain until there was no more left for him to speak.

"You'd think…" he continued, rasping slightly as he forced himself to utter the words he'd once sworn he'd never ever say aloud. "You'd think I'd be used to that, huh? After Elisa." He felt Lilly twitch at that, and he could scarcely imagine the self-control it must've taken her not to interrupt him then, but it was a point he had to get across. He'd started now, and he couldn't stop until he was done. "You're gonna say it ain't the same, but you know it is. Don't matter what kinda pain you're dealin' with, if the end result's gonna be the same. Right?" With a considerable effort, one that took more out of him than he would've liked to admit, he raised his head and fixed her with a pleading look that he couldn't quite control, almost begging her to agree with him. She could deny what he was saying a thousand times, and be right a thousand times, but it wouldn't help because deep down inside himself he'd never believe it. If she agreed with him, accepted the truth that he perceived in the words, then at least he could connect with her. At least they'd be on the same page, even if that page was ultimately the wrong one. "I try'n do right by the world, Lil. I'm a cop, for Christ's sake. We don't hurt, we help. Ain't that what the job's all about? An'… an' even if it ain't my fault, directly… it ain't fair that I gotta be the one standin' back and watchin' people I care about get hurt so bad they wanna die, all 'cause of me. It ain't right."

The rhythm of Lilly's breathing shifted slightly, and she moved in close to embrace him. He could almost hear her struggling with herself, fighting her desire to speak what she perceived to be the truth and her knowledge that he needed to hear what he perceived to be the same. He had absolute faith in her, even as he allowed himself to dissolve against her, burying himself into the crook of her neck and shutting his eyes so tight that lights flashed behind them. She was Lilly Rush; she always knew what she was doing. She wouldn't let him down now, any more than she'd let him down before in luring him down here and beating his anger out of him. And he was too exhausted to fight that faith any longer, and released all his guilt and his sorrow into her hands, to do with as she wished, because she was the only one of them now with enough strength to hold it all. And she wouldn't let him down. He'd said 'hey', and she'd come running to save him.

"It's not," she whispered, rocking him. "It's not fair, and it's not right. You don't…" Her breath caught for a moment, and he could feel the struggle within her, as if it was his own. "You don't deserve to carry the weight of all the blame." She leaned backwards, her hands snaking out in front of her to gently grasp the sides of his face. In spite of himself, in spite of the exhaustion, in spite of everything that insisted he lay back down and give up breathing, he wanted to meet her glance, and it was only through the sheer desperation to see those eyes again and read the intensity with which he knew she now stared at him, that he managed to drag his eyelids up one last time and match her gaze. There was such depthless empathy within those eyes that it almost froze his soul to see and, for that moment, he wanted more than anything to lose himself within her and place his very existence within her hands because he knew she'd keep it safe. She smiled at him, slowly and warmly, and it was a smile that set him alight from within; not with the fires of rage or fury as before, but with an emotion so long distant from him, he'd almost forgotten what it felt like. Hope. And then she spoke again, so gently that he could wrap himself up in the words alone, and to hell with the sentiment behind them. "Let me carry some of it."

He wanted to. More than anything, he wanted to surrender that guilt to her, to give it up and allow himself to rest at long last. But it was his burden to bear, and his alone. "Ain't yours to carry."

"Didn't say it was," she said, easily, as if she'd been expecting this (and why wouldn't she have been; he was nothing if not predictable). "You can carry something that belongs to someone else, can't you?" She sighed deeply, and pulled him in close. "I'm not gonna try and take this away from you, Scotty. You need it. God only knows why, but you do. I just wanna take some of the weight off your shoulders. Just let 'em rest for a little while, that's all. You don't need to let go of it forever… just for now."

He studied her, wide-eyed as a child. "You promise you'll give it back?"

She smiled, at the same time tragic and radiant. "Not mine to keep."

He accepted that, as if it were a covenant carved in stone. Closing his eyes, he sank into her arms once again, the weight lifting almost physically from him. He could feel the tears welling up in his eyes once again, raw with the pain that he could feel distantly course through his shredded knuckles, rawer still with the exhaustion of carrying the guilt and the blame and the hatred for so long and so far… and he didn't even try to stop them from falling. He didn't need to be ashamed of crying, didn't need to be ashamed of the guilt. Lilly was there, right there, holding it safe for him, and setting him free just for as long as he needed to repair the damage within himself. She'd return it, and he'd lock it up within himself; she couldn't take it away from him, and he wouldn't let her. The guilt was a part of him, as much a fundamental essence of who he was as his cultural heritage or his job; without it, he would lose himself, and Lilly finally understood that. But, for now, he could let her carry it for him, and he sit back from that part of himself and weep. Weep for who he was, the unfortunate bearer of the world's guilt. Weep for Elisa and Mike and Ana Castilla and Kat Miller. Weep for all the world's hurt and wrongdoing, and weep hard. Just for those moments, he could truly believe there was nothing but himself and Lilly Rush and their shared grief for those people who had been lost or hurt because of some obscure entity named Scotty Valens. Just for now, he could just _be_.

It wasn't forever. But it was enough.

* * *

**TBC**


	18. She Gathers Rain

_A/N: As usual, innumerable thanks for all the feedback… and, as with the previous chapter, SO sorry this one took so long to get finished. I have no excuse this time, save my inability to put pen to paper for about two days straight._

**18.  
She Gathers Rain**

* * *

"Hey, uh… you need anything?"

"Answer ain't changed in thirty seconds, Nick."

"Oh… uh… right. Yeah… sorry."

Kat rolled her eyes. Under normal circumstances, she would've been overjoyed at the sight of Nick Vera so reduced from his trademark chauvinism to a helpless mass of confused testosterone, simply by a few artful tears on her part (and she'd take another bullet before she'd admit that maybe – just maybe – the tears had been real)… but, at that moment, she just felt too damn lousy to care.

In part, she supposed it was his fault, but (for the first time in as long as she'd known him) she would never tell him that. He and his goddamn donuts. He couldn't have just done what she'd expected, could he? He had to go and raise the bar, make a peace offering, try and do right by her. Worst part was, the bastard was right. A whole damn box of donuts, courtesy of Nick Vera and his guilty conscience? Yeah, it was all she wanted in the world… but just the smell of them was enough to make her feel sick. And she hated that. Hated the goddamn painkillers for making her feel that way, hated them a thousand times more because – for all of their brutal side-effects – they weren't doing a damn thing to ease the pain. Hated him for not thinking things through, even though it should've been enough that he'd been so thoughtful as to buy the donuts at all. Hated her own worthless body, almost more than both of the others combined, for being so goddamn weak.

The thought was enough to bring tears to her eyes again, but she fought them back. Even so, he caught the spark of emotion as it flashed across her face, and – in true Nick Vera style – misinterpreted the meaning. "I could go, if I'm bothering you so much," he said; the pout behind his voice, she imagined, was meant to make him sound boyish and sulky, but only served to make him seem hurt. "I got a ton of stuff to be doin' if you don't want me. Bet they're missing the hell outta me, back at the office."

"Bet they don't even know you're gone," she retorted with an ironic smile. It was hollow, and even she knew it, but she told herself it was the effort that counted.

"Yeah, yeah…" he muttered, throwing her a withering look. "Either way, they're gonna want me back." He paused then, and studied her intently for a moment; she shifted uncomfortably beneath his gaze, and fought to keep from blushing at the violation of her personal space. It was almost as if he was desperately searching the cracks in her face for something, anything, that said '_it's not you I'm mad at, Nick, it's me'_, but it was more than she could do to give him that, even though it was true. And he'd been there for her, let her cry into him without uttering a single sarcastic comment, and she should've told him how much that had meant to her, but she couldn't. Tears were one thing, but words were far beyond her reach.

Depending on other people for emotional support was a concept that Kat Miller had never been able to grasp. It wasn't that she was scared of opening herself up; it had just been so damn long since she'd allowed herself to do it, she couldn't remember how. And she wanted to. God, how she wanted to. Even if it was Nick Vera, even if he was the most inappropriate human being on the planet, even if she would've sooner lay her soul bare to _anyone_ else but him… even then, she wanted to. But to find that within herself? It took an inner strength that she simply didn't have.

And maybe that wasn't her fault, either. Maybe it was just another of those unexpected things that came with being a single parent. It was okay for the lucky ones, the happy families. Mom had a bad day, Dad would play the immoveable mountain for a while; Dad had a bad day, Mom would be the one to lay down the law. It didn't matter, because there would always be someone there to keep up the appearance of being invulnerable. Kat had learned from experience how completely a child's world could shatter in the moment they realised that their parents weren't the untouchable superheroes they believed in. Memories of Veronica's face, the first time she'd been shot, flooded unbidden into her mind, and her breath hitched.

Vera was there in an instant, all thoughts of leaving apparently gone from his mind as he reacted to the quiet sound with all the usefulness of a wet dishcloth. "You want something?" he asked, his voice and face bearing a cross between genuine anxiety for her welfare and an unabashed concern for his own squeamishness if she was on the brink of something unpleasant. "More meds? Less meds? Need a bucket? Want me to call a nurse? Get you a new bandage? Fetch you some cafeteria Jell-O?"

"How 'bout shutting the hell up?" she growled, with more venom than was strictly necessary; she knew he was only trying to help (in his own clumsy way), but it was difficult enough to try and keep her thoughts straight without him barging into them and reminding her exactly why she wanted to fall into him and burst into tears again. Still, he reacted to the words as if she'd punched him in the face, and she cringed at the look on his face. "I don't need anything," she finished, somewhat pathetically.

"No need to get mean about it," he threw back.

She studied his unhappy '_I was just trying to help_' face for just a moment, before turning her head to bury herself in the pillow. It wasn't exactly comfortable, but at least she didn't have to look at him. "Yeah, there is," she said, voice muffled. "It's the only thing I know how to do."

For a few moments, he didn't say anything; if not for the complete stillness in the room, she would've assumed he'd made good on his threats to leave. It was only when she allowed her guard to drop, and her thoughts to return to their dark place, that he thrust his presence back onto her. "Okay," he said, speaking with a dangerous quietude. "You wanna be mean. You wanna bottle everything up. You wanna push everyone away 'till it's just you lyin' in a hospital bed all on your own with just an empty donut box to hear you cryin'… but it don't work that way." He sighed wearily. "Look. You wanna beat yourself up, I'm not gonna stop you. Hell, what's a couple more bruises, right?" He was leaning right in close, now, so much so that she could taste the revenants of donut on his breath, and it would have made her retch if he'd given her the chance; instead, he snatched the pillow away with a violence that caused her to flinch, took her chin in one big hand, and forced her to face him. "I get that you've got this self-deprecating denial BS going on… and, hey, I say 'whatever'. You do what you gotta do to get through this." He took a deep breath to mentally prepare himself for what he had to say next, and Kat used the moment to do the same. "But you _know_ I ain't gonna let you go down without me."

"That's not your call to make," she muttered, angry and sullen. "It's my party, and it's invite-only… nothin' personal."

"You bet your ass it's personal," he replied. "You let me pour my heart out, and think you can get away by shedding a few tears? Don't work that way. You think I came here to say 'I missed ya'? Hell, you knew that already; I brought you a box of donuts, for Christ's sake. I'm here 'cause, dammit, you need someone to be here. You can't do this by yourself, Miller… even _you_ ain't that tough."

The bastard was right; it pained her to admit it, but he was. Of course, the fact that he was right didn't piss her off half as much as the fact that he knew it. There was nothing she hated more than a smug and self-satisfied Nick Vera; it was her job to be the smug and self-satisfied one, and his to be the guy whining and sulking because she'd once again handed him his ass on a silver plate. That was just the way it was. Bad enough that he'd start turning the tables by bringing her donuts and throwing her off-guard with his stupid sentimentality. Bad enough that he'd be the one to see her like this, to see her crying (that is, if the tears had been real, which she still insisted they weren't), to see the cracks in her armour. Now he had to take away the one thing she had over him, the one refuge left to her, the knowledge that – whatever happened, however close to breakdown she came, whatever pain she was in – she would always, _always_ be better than Nick Vera.

She watched him now, studying his face until she had every line memorised. He was angry and worried and restless, all at the same time. Angry at her for being so wrapped up in her own head that she couldn't bring herself to accept a helping hand when it was offered. Worried about her, too, because he could see too clearly the shattered state she was in, and how unlike her it was. And restless because he was suddenly well aware of his own shortcomings, the impracticability of him being the guy who had to be 'there'. It was no more in Vera's character to be the sympathetic shoulder than it was in Kat's to be the person who needed it. As well as he hid it, she knew he had a good heart buried deep underneath his wannabe machismo. She'd seen it, in those moments where he didn't think anyone was looking; catching a glimpse of him eyeing photos of himself with Toni and Andre, hearing his voice soften almost imperceptibly whenever he found himself facing a genuine victim, seeing the sorrow in his eyes whenever he spoke about his ex-wife. Inside that obnoxiously oversized chest, she knew, beat the heart of a good guy. Problem was, he didn't have a damn clue what to do with it.

Oh, she knew her own psyche was no improvement on that score… and, unlike him, she didn't have a good heart. Hers was the heart of someone who'd spent their entire life overcoming unjust obstacles. Wasn't enough that she had to be a woman on a male-dominated career path; no, she had to take it one step further, and be a woman of colour. And then, because she apparently had a secret love of making her own life impossible, she had to go and make a reckless stupid mistake and become a single parent. Hers was the heart of someone who'd had to fight a triple-threat of prejudice at every goddamn turn, and who wasn't gonna take any crap from anyone; it was bitter and hyper-defensive, protected by so many barriers that even she herself wasn't entirely sure how to break through them anymore. If he thought he could force her hand, just because _he_ wanted it, he was even dumber than she gave him credit for. And that was really saying something.

"How many times you been shot, Nick?" she asked. She allowed herself to sound almost genuinely curious, but made no feint at hiding the warning behind her voice.

"Not the issue," he said, agonisingly predictable.

"Looks like it from where I'm sittin'," she replied.

He clenched his fist, drawing it tight against his forehead in outright frustration. "Dammit, Miller…" he growled, then seemed to catch himself. "…_Kat_." And, yeah, she blinked at that. He never used her first name. Nobody did, really, unless they had a reason; but he, more than anyone else, stuck to 'Miller' wherever possible. As if there was some taboo attached to the name which would involve admitting that he really gave a damn about her. She'd never been particularly bothered by it; hell, if he'd chosen any moment other than now to try it, she would've popped him in the mouth before he even got the syllable out. But now, it just seemed to fit, like he'd been using the name as long as they'd known each other. And he went on, dropping the machismo completely, and just pleading with her… as if her pain really was his too. "Kat. Let me in. Please."

Part of her insisted that he only wanted entry into her private thoughts because he was so damn used to demanding entry into them; the concept of being shut out, even from the one person in the world he was used to being shut out by, was an alien one to him, and she knew that – for him – the fight to get her to give up whatever secrets she held was almost worth more than the secrets themselves. But even that part of her, still seeing only the shallow-minded jackass she worked with, could see the sincerity behind that motive. She'd let her guard drop, let him see her cry, if only for a moment, and now he wanted more. Now he wanted her to open herself completely, bare her soul to him and let him try to help. She could tell herself, and tell him, and tell everyone in the world that she didn't need any goddamn help, but it wouldn't make her right.

Worst part was, she actually wanted to let him in; that broke her far more than the fact that he wanted her to. She was Kat Miller; she didn't need help. Ever. That was just the way it was. She didn't feel helpless, didn't get scared, didn't let people in. Once upon a time, she'd been tough because she had to be. Now, she was tough because it was all she'd been for so long, she didn't know how to be anything else. Didn't know how to lower those infinite barriers, didn't know how to soften her edges. And it was these moments, when her very soul was begging to be put into someone else's hands and nurtured and looked after, and she was unable – almost physically incapable, the reaction was so deep-set – to let it go, that she hated herself.

"You know that ain't gonna happen," she whispered.

He dropped his head into his hands, and sighed so deeply that his entire body shook with it. "Y'know, you're the most stubborn jackass I've ever met," he said softly.

"Yeah," she agreed, and there was genuine warmth there. She shifted slightly to face the far wall, since he'd taken her protective pillow away, and made a point of staring at it and not at him, because – while this wasn't exactly 'opening up' – it was still damn hard. "I wan…" Even though she'd prepared herself to try and say the words, she still stumbled over them, and her jaw clenched. "…I wanna let you in. Okay? I want to. I wanna open up, and I wanna let you take it all away. For once in my life, I wanna let someone else be there and tell me it's okay, it's okay, it's okay, and I wanna believe them… and, for once in my goddamn life, _I wanna break down_." There was a lump in her throat now, and she swallowed over it. "But I _can't_."

For a long moment following that, a heavy silence reigned over the room, punctuated only by the thick pulse of Kat's heartbeat resounding in her own ears. She kept her eyes fixed firmly, her gaze becoming a cold glare with the effort of holding back the emotion, but she could sense Vera's presence heavy beside her. Like her, he made no effort to break the silence for some time, merely letting it wash over him and guide the words through his mind; she couldn't look at him, but she knew he was watching her, struggling to find words. She felt her fingers tighten spasmodically, clenching around the blankets in rhythm with her heartbeat, and let out a breath she hadn't known she was holding.

"You feel like givin' my pillow back, now?" she asked.

"Oh." There was a smile in his voice, a sense of almost relief that she'd opted to break the tension before he had to think of something stupid to say. "Uh, yeah. Here…"

In an uncharacteristic show of gentlemanliness (of the sort that made Kat wonder, just for a moment, if maybe this was the sort of treatment he pulled out for Toni), he set to work fluffing the pillow and rearranging it behind her, fussing and grumbling over its condition like some sort of pillow connoisseur. She smiled, ever so slightly, and leaned back against the pillow when he was finally satisfied with it. Of course, she didn't bother thanking him, but she did tear her eyes away from the stark wall and once again allowed herself to meet his gaze, which she hoped would convey that sentiment well enough to keep her from needing to say anything more. His eyes were clouded with a thoughtfulness she'd never seen in him – not even when they were working on the most complicated of cases – and he looked like he desperately wanted to say something, but didn't trust himself not to screw it up. In a strange sort of way, though she was the one who wanted to break down, he was the one she felt sorry for; it couldn't be easy, dealing with a psychological nightmare like Kat Miller.

As if reading her mind, he climbed to his feet. "Hey, I'm gonna grab some coffee," he said, awkward. "Sure you don't nee—" he cut himself off, quickly "—_want_ anything?"

A twinge of anxiety coursed through her as he spoke, the notion of being left alone with her thoughts filling her with an irrational terror, and she silently cursed herself for it. He'd been there less than an hour, and she was already dependent on the company he offered. She was caught between a rock and a hard place; unable to open up and let him see her innermost emotions, but at the same time suddenly frightened of being alone with them… and now she was silently cursing him, too, for making her think so damn hard about all this. When had he discovered all these damn good intentions, and why the hell had he chosen now to start putting them into practise? She'd been fine before he'd darkened her door – or, if not fine, at least suitably wrapped up in denial to pretend she was – and now, thanks to his compassion, she was finding herself forced to confront things, wanting to share her soul with someone, wanting to break down. Goddamn sentimental jackass.

"I, uh…" she said, considering her answer to his question. "Guess I could go for some of that cafeteria Jell-O." Her stomach lurched in rebellion against the thought of eating anything, and she grimaced. "But… uh… might need you to make good on that promise to hold my hair back."

He chuckled lightly at that, and leaned in to offer a one-armed hug. "You got it," he agreed, and she could've sworn she felt him plant the ghost of a kiss on her forehead.

The room grew cold as he left, and she tried to huddle deeper into the scant hospital blankets. It was a bad move, and one that caused her to yelp as her leg shifted the wrong way. The pain seared through her fast and sharp as bolt of lightning, and she found herself biting back tears for what felt like the hundredth time. Biting them back, even though there was nobody there to witness them, and the ridiculous futility of the gesture brought a manic sort of laugh to her lips. Vera wasn't even there, and even so she couldn't drop that tough-chick badass image. She was _alone_, not a single witness in sight, and she still couldn't bring herself to let go. She ran a hand through her hair, and swore aloud. What in the hell was wrong with her?

_You?_ Fitzpatrick's voice resounded through her brain, and she slammed her eyes shut. _This ain't about you. It ain't got nothin' to do with you._ _It's all about Valens. You're nothin', just dead weight, an' everyone knows that. Why else d'you think they bailed on you when you needed 'em?_

"They didn't." Dimly, she was aware of the fact that she was speaking to an empty room. "I told her to take him home. She'd never have gone if I hadn't told her to."

_Yeah, you keep tellin' yourself that,_ he laughed, cutting and cruel. _Valens was plannin' your funeral; what makes you so damn sure the rest of 'em weren't doin' the same?_ His voice grew darker, then, ruthless and bitter. _What makes you so damn sure your little girl ain't doin' it right now?_

She choked. "You don't get to talk about her. You—"

_C'mon,_ he interrupted._ How long you been outta danger, now? And you ain't even got guts enough to let your own kid see ya. Bet she don't even know what happened._

It shouldn't have surprised her, his knowledge of that – he was, after all, just some twisted figment of her over-medicated imagination; who better to know her inside and out? – but it did. She'd made a point, in fact, of not letting Veronica know the intimacies of her situation; a brief (very slurred) phone-call to her mother, insisting everything was fine and she'd explain the details at a later date, was as close as she'd got to dealing with that side of things, and she had no intention of taking it any further at least until she'd sifted through her emotional debris. She had enough internal conflict to worry about, without adding that to the mix.

Of course, once it had gotten into her head – and the spectre of Fitzpatrick in her head was making damn sure it got there – she couldn't remove it, and images of her daughter's face swam once again across her field of vision. He talked a good talk, this psychotic hallucination, but he didn't have a clue what it was like. How was she supposed to tell the truth, to look at her daughter and admit she'd lied? She couldn't even face Nick Vera; how in the hell could anyone expect her to face the one pair of eyes in all the world that could reduce her to nothing without even trying?

The last time this had happened – well, not _this_ exactly, but the last time she'd been shot – she'd promised it would never happen again. She hadn't wanted to, had known all too well even then that it wasn't in her hands whether she kept it or not, but she'd been convinced at the time that she'd had no choice. The look in Veronica's eyes when she'd seen her lying there, the stark terror and the gut-wrenching sorrow, had cut so much deeper than the shrapnel. The knowledge that she – not some twisted criminal, not some drug-dealer or serial killer – _she_ had brought that look to her daughter's face, that all the hurt and horror in those eyes were _her_ doing and hers alone, had been more than she could bear. And so she made her empty promises. It had been a stupid decision, she knew, but it had been the most natural and instinctive thing she'd ever done. No agony in existence could compare to the sight of a child – _her_ child – in pain, and knowing that she'd caused it. She would've done anything in the world to undo that, but she'd had to settle for the only thing that was within her power.

And maybe (just maybe) she'd actually believed it herself. That time hadn't been half as bad as this one, but it had left an imprint on her memory, and she'd convinced herself she'd never make that mistake again. She'd known it didn't work that way – she could never make another mistake as long as she lived, and still end up on the receiving end of a bullet simply through the nature of her chosen career – but she'd needed something to believe in.

She'd been scared. There, she admitted it. And, this time, she was more than scared. She was broken, shattered, and she didn't even know where to begin putting those pieces back together. It hadn't been about her, she knew that. She was just in the wrong place at the wrong time, and somehow that made it even harder. Fitzpatrick – the one in her head – was right. It had nothing to do with her, it was all about Scotty and his guilt. And she couldn't dwell on her own suffering, her own issues, because that would be reinforcing exactly what Fitzpatrick had wanted. If she let herself be shattered, it would shatter him too.

_You gotta make peace, Kat_.

It was Fitzpatrick's voice again, but Scotty's sentiment, and she realised dizzily that he'd been right all along. She did need to make peace, but not with herself. When they'd been trapped together, his guilt had kept her strong. Her desire to defy him, to force him to defy himself, had given her something to reach for. Now they were apart, she was drifting and alone. She couldn't let Vera in, couldn't let anyone in. But she didn't need to let Scotty in, because he was already there. He'd seen the worst of her, felt the suffering as if it was his own. Her pain was his, his guilt was hers. In her, the physical – the pain, so deep it tore her limb from limb with every movement; the nausea, so brutal that bouts of it had left her unable to breathe; the cold, so raw it had almost been enough to end her completely. In him, the emotional – the guilt, so depthless that it had devoured him from within; the agony, an amalgamation of loss and grief and mourning so thick he could choke on it; the hatred, so violent and chaotic, directed at everything that had been taken from him. The physical couldn't heal without the emotional, and the emotional couldn't heal without the physical. They needed each other to survive.

"Cafeteria Jell-O for milady."

Vera was hovering over her, and she opened her eyes in a bid to focus on him. It didn't work, and she let them slide closed again with no further effort. "Need another favour," she heard herself murmuring, and smiled inside at the fact that she still had presence of mind to make demands.

"Lime one was all they had…"

She laughed. "_Favour_, not _flavour_." Though her eyes were closed, she could imagine the frown that now crawled its way across his forehead. "Need you to get Scotty here."

"I told you, Scotty's fine." He was speaking very slowly, almost cautiously, and that damn worry was seeping through his voice again. She felt his hand on her brow, and grumbled incoherently at the intrusion, even as she heard him inhale brusquely. "Christ, you're drenched. You delirious?"

"You want me to pop you in the mouth?" she retorted, figuring that would offer a far more reliable answer to the question than any denial. "Look… you wanna help? This'll help." He grunted, clearly not believing a word, so she pressed on with unnatural urgency. "I gotta see him, Nick."

She felt, rather than heard, him react to that. The urgency behind the words, the words themselves, the fact that they were coming from her. Everything about him, the silhouette of him standing over her eyelids, seemed to soften in that instant. Suddenly, it didn't matter that he couldn't understand why it was so important; suddenly, it was enough that this was something she was asking him to do for her. Nick Vera, the guy who needed to be involved in everything, was suddenly content to just be there to take a simple request. It was enough that she trusted him to do this, to understand how much this meant to her, even if he couldn't understand why. He could never be a part of this, and they both knew it. But it was enough for him to see her shine with determination, and to lean upon him – even figuratively – and ask him to bring her what she needed. It wasn't what he wanted, she knew, and maybe one day she'd be able to give him that. But, for now, he'd take what he could get.

"You want him?" he asked, at long last, and she nodded. "Then you got him. Even if I gotta drag him all the way here with my bare hands… you got him."

* * *

**TBC**

_A/N: This was originally intended to a split-perspective chapter, and (as usual) was intended to get much further than it actually did... but – as constantly seems to happen with these latter chapters – it didn't turn out that way, so many apologies if the flow was somewhat off. I need to stop letting the characters tell me what to write, and start putting my foot down.  
_


	19. General Attitude

_A/N: As per usual, infinite thanks to everyone who's given feedback. Particular mention to Sawyer for once again taking time out of your sleep schedule to review; and to oucellogal for being just plain awesome; but also, just general gratitude to everyone. Also, again, major apologies for taking so long to get this one posted; it would have been up yesterday, but my ISP has developed a wonderful habit of consistently crashing every bloody time I try to upload something. Go figure._

**19.  
General Attitude**

* * *

There was no real way of knowing how long they'd been sat there on the kitchen floor, entwined in one another and fused together by the heat of Scotty's inner demons. Lilly supposed she could've checked her watch, but she couldn't bring herself to go through the motions of doing so; the thought of loosing her arms where they circled him filled her with anxiety, and the knowledge that any kind of movement could break the spell he was now under, and cause him to lock himself back up within his mind. If that happened, even for a moment, she knew she'd never be able to bring him back, and – as far as she was concerned – it was worth not knowing the time if it meant not chancing that. Even now, he was too fragile to run that risk.

He'd long since stopped crying, but that hadn't stopped him needing her to carry the brunt of his emotions. If there was one thing Lilly Rush had learned in her years of dealing with criminals and victims alike, it was that tears were only one of a million different ways that people vented their emotions. For Scotty, they were incidental, a farewell to the shame of feeling those emotions, and a doorway to recovery. As long as she'd known him, he had been an emotive person, violent and expressive, but a far cry from the sort of person who would cry at sappy movies or allow his tears to fall unchecked in any but the most extreme situation. Tears, for him, seemed to be a means to an end, almost a magic marker drawing a thick line underneath all the fury and the chaos that was a permanent fixture in his mind. A necessary rest-stop on the path to acceptance, but nothing more than that. He would fight, then he would cry, and then he would cast those tears aside as if they'd never existed… but the fact that they had, even for that brief moment, would be enough for him.

In a lot of ways, Scotty was a typical guy. Not quite so typical as Vera, but sure as hell more typical than Jeffries; Lilly didn't know much about the older detective, but she'd always imagined him as the type who would take comfort from his own tears in times of sorrow. She could picture him with a small, understated glass of liquor in one hand and some slow jazz playing in the background, crying softly and elegantly until all the pain had washed away. But that sort of approach wouldn't work with Scotty Valens; it had startled Lilly, more than she would care to admit, to see him lying there in bed for hours on end after she'd brought him home. It had been so antithetical to everything she knew of him, every facet of him that she flattered herself she understood. He was a man of action, a man of rage and brutality, who could KO his problems with a single punch if he wanted to, but who instead chose to deliver small and staggering blows instead, over and over again until his problems were begging for mercy instead of just unconscious. He was a fighter, not a quitter, and the sight of him in that bed had warned Lilly more than anything else that he'd needed help. He'd needed someone to light that fire within him, to bring out that fury once again, and Lilly Rush had met that challenge head-on.

Truth be told, she'd been more than a little relieved to see him rise to the bait and allow that rage to come pouring out; aware as she was of the fact that damage to his knuckles as a result would doubtless result in an x-ray or two (masochism was one thing, she knew, but she wouldn't allow him to ignore the products of it), it had been worth it to get that emotion back out in the open. It wasn't like him to repress his feelings. Refuse to share them, sure, and she'd been prepared for that; but refusal to share wasn't the same as repression, and the sight of him hiding from those deep-set emotions had frightened her somewhat. The rage, the anger, that was safe; he was long accustomed to tapping into that particular emotion (and not opposed to doing so in public), and so it had been the logical place to start with him. She almost wondered, sometimes, whether he drew comfort from that masochistic fury that was so deep a part of his identity; it showed, she supposed, that he could still feel something. Even if that something was the most damaging and dangerous corner of the emotional spectrum, it reminded him that he could still feel, and could still express those feelings through action. Yeah, he was a typical guy; it was all about action and expression, about being able to physically let loose.

He sat there now, enveloped in her arms, simply drawing strength and comfort from her embrace in a way that (she knew) he would never allow himself to do from anyone else. Vera had said to her, before they'd pulled out the big guns to bring their colleagues home, that Scotty was 'her boy'; and the same sentiment had been echoed afterwards by Kat (even she, delirious with pain as she had been, had caught it) when she'd told Lilly to take him home. Clearly, it was just one of those things that everyone knew; she'd never heard Jeffries or Stillman mention it, but – thinking back – she was sure she'd noticed the occasional glint of pride flash through the Lieutenant's eyes as he'd watched the two of them work together. They were Rush and Valens; that was just how things were. It was only natural that she be the one who could appeal to that darker side of him, draw it out, and know intuitively how to deal with it. If she couldn't do that, who in the hell could?

At long last, after what seemed like a lifetime (and yet, somehow, not long enough), he raised his head to look at her. It was something she'd been rather dreading from the moment he'd allowed her to take hold of him, and the look in his eyes as they focused on hers was enough to remind her of exactly why that was. He didn't look helpless, didn't even look vulnerable, but there was something in those eyes that told her she was the only thing keeping him from breaking down, and that knowledge scared her more than anything else she'd ever known. She was a cop, a bringer of justice and seeker of truth. She dealt with the twisted nature of human existence every day, but she did it from a safe and judgemental difference; though she'd spent her entire career getting inside the darkest and most disturbed corners of the human mind, she felt completely out of her depth now. It was the exact same thing, she told herself. The rawness in Scotty's eyes as he gazed at her and begged for what little reprieve she could offer was – she insisted – no different to that in the eyes of a rape victim or a bombing survivor; he needed her reassurance, simple affirmation of his belief that _she could help_… but, unlike the victims and the survivors and the traumatised witnesses, she couldn't find it within herself to offer that reassurance, and it pained her almost physically to feel her eyes drag themselves away from his.

"Lil," he said quietly, and she felt herself nod. For a long moment, he didn't follow the word up with anything, and – if she'd had the courage to face him – she had no doubt she would've seen his jaw set and his eyes harden as he strove to find the words. She wanted to help him, to guide the words (whatever they were) out of him, but she knew that they had to come from him; she could coax him into speaking more quickly, or put the words she expected of him into his mouth, but that wouldn't do anything for either of them. She needed to be patient now, as desperate as she was to know what he wanted (anything at all, she knew, and she'd do everything within her power to make sure he got it), and wait for him to find his own words. He'd needed her to get him this far, but now that he was here, the steps he was taking were his own.

"Yeah?" she asked, gently, allowing her voice to express the patience she didn't truly feel but that he needed to hear. Letting him know he could take all the time in the world if he wanted to. She'd offered him forever… and, dammit, she wasn't about to go back on that.

He took a deep breath, and another, and suddenly she couldn't keep her eyes off him anymore. Fighting against her innermost instincts, she forced her eyes to return to his, drinking in the chaos there as if it were poisoned wine. It was sweet and it was bitter, but it wasn't bittersweet. There was so much emotion behind his eyes, so deep she could drown within it if she looked into them for long enough, and – just as she'd taken his rage and his guilt and set him free from that for just as long as he'd needed – she absorbed all that chaos and made it her own too; looked deep into the abyss of his soul, and shared in his descent. And, when he finally did spoke, it was with a calmness that was almost eerie by comparison to everything she could see so clear and crystalline soaring through his eyes like wild multicoloured birds. "Thanks."

That was it; just one word. Small, simple, and so breathtakingly calm. But in that instant, it was everything, and she couldn't keep herself from pulling him close once again. Not the desperate, agonised hold they'd shared previously, now she held him close in nothing more than a soft hug, an expression of love and friendship and compassion and everything in between, of acceptance and gratitude in kind, and of every shared moment between them before and yet to be. And, as she held him, it amazed her how much could be said by one word from him and one gesture from her; the depth of his feelings, she knew, still went so far deeper than anything he could actively express, and he'd given up the will to try… but it didn't matter, because she was there and – however he _did_ try to express it – he knew and she knew and they knew together that she'd get it. In no more than a word she'd get it, and from no more than a hug, he'd understand that she'd got it. Yeah, they were Rush and Valens; that was just how things were. No power in the world could come between them.

No power, of course, except that of a cellphone ringing loudly and intrusively, slamming through the atmosphere like a sledgehammer, and Lilly cursed aloud (something she tried to make a point of not doing, and all the more so in situations as precarious as this) at the unpleasant sound. Worst part was, she didn't even need to glance at the damn thing to know who was calling.

"The hell d'you want, Vera?" she asked, icily.

She hadn't forgotten his earlier outburst, and sure as hell wasn't about to let him forget it either. The two of them had worked together for what seemed like a lifetime, and she'd always believed she was comfortably accustomed to his 'Nick Vera'-ness; he was insensitive and opinionated, they all knew that. But she'd never felt the fury towards him that she'd felt when he'd called her out over this. He had no right, she'd told herself, and she felt her jaw hardening with resolve at that recollection. He hadn't been there; as usual, he hadn't had a goddamn clue what he was talking about when he'd started shooting his mouth off. She'd been more than within her right to tell him to drop the issue and, if they'd been in the same room, was pretty damn sure she would've been equally within her right to drop-kick him down the goddamn hall. She'd done what had been necessary in a nightmare of a situation, and they both knew he'd never have been strong enough to make the call she had to make back there. It had ripped her apart to leave Kat alone back there, but the simple fact had been what the woman herself had pointed out – Scotty was their highest priority. Vera could never understand that, and if he was calling her up now just to relight the fire of their earlier fight, she really would drop-kick him.

"_Me? I don't want nothin',_" he growled in a voice so low she had to strain to make it out over the cellphone static; clearly, he was no more thrilled at having to make the call than she was at having to receive it, which set her mind ever so slightly at ease. "_Uh… how's Valens?"_

Lilly had to bite her tongue to keep from throwing out a response far more impolite than even her current disgust would've legitimated. "He's… getting better," she said, as neutrally as she could manage, feeling her free arm tighten ever so slightly around him. "How—" Angry, she ended the question in mid word. Kat was fine, she reminded herself. Whatever Vera thought, she'd been there; she knew. And she knew his game; the moment she asked the question, he'd find a way to convince her she'd been wrong to do what she'd done. She knew him well enough by now, and she wasn't about to start rising to his juvenile bait. Not her. Clearly he had a reason for calling, and she needed to focus on that. So, she dropped the question entirely, focusing instead on the task at hand, and let him think whatever he wanted of her. "You gonna drop the small-talk and get to the point, Nick, or do you wanna piss us both off by dragging this crap out even more?"

"_Nice, Lil…_" he muttered, coldly. "_Real nice._"

"Enough," she replied. "Get to the point."

Vera took a deep, noisy breath; clearly, whatever he had to say was difficult, and she tried to calm herself down a little and be professional. "_Thing is…_" he said, so slowly she wanted to rip his back open and change his batteries. "_Thing is, she's messed up. Really messed up._" Lilly felt her chest constrict at that, and once again reminded herself that it was Nick Vera being Nick Vera and trying to make her feel bad about bailing; Kat was fine, it was Scotty who was in need of help. Vera was just playing the lowest common denominator, that was all it was. "_She won't talk to me. She's… it's like she's broken in pieces, and she won't let me put 'em back together._" And he sounded so truly saddened by the fact, so genuinely upset by his own worthlessness, that Lilly felt the ice around her melt just a little.

"It's Miller, Nick. She's just not the 'talking' type. She's tough as nails, you know that better than most." She exhaled, feeling the anger swell again as Scotty tensed under her arm at the realisation of what they were discussing; she took just a moment to soothe him, before returning her attention to Vera. "I was there. She was making wisecracks, right up 'till we left, talking about donuts. If that's not the same old Kat Miller, I dunno what is. Whatever you think you're seeing, it doesn't exist. I was there."

"_But you ain't here now, Lil._" He was breathing hard, as if he was struggling to keep from exploding. For a moment, he seemed not to trust himself to speak, and she was just about to tell him to stop being so paranoid when he found his voice again, and Lilly felt all the air rushing out of her lungs as he finally got to the point. "_She wants to see him._"

-

* * *

-

Even though he'd only been able to hear Lilly's side of the conversation, Scotty had no trouble figuring out that they were talking about Kat; quite what that had to do with Lil, he didn't quite know, but (judging by the way Lilly's fist clenched around the phone, knuckles turning dead white) he figured it couldn't be good. She tightened her arm around him once again, protectively, and he pulled away before she had the chance to cut off his circulation entirely.

"Not gonna happen, Vera," she said, dangerously.

Scotty raised a curious eyebrow at that, but she made a point – uncharacteristically, especially given what had just passed between them – of ignoring him. He could hear, dimly, the gravel against the static of Vera's voice struggling to make a point. He couldn't make out the words, or even the general feeling, but there was something in that low hum on the other end of the line (and in Lilly's own tone as she'd spoken) that said something wasn't right between the two. Despite himself, and all his own issues and problems and emotional baggage, Scotty found himself frowning with genuine concern for them both.

"Lil," he said, in a half-whisper. "What's goin' on?"

She looked at him then, and her whole face softened for a moment; she seemed to fade out whatever Vera was saying, and just focus on him, and all the negativity that had drifted into the room as her cellphone had started ringing, disappeared just for a single precious second. In spite of himself, he couldn't help smiling at that, and felt his own face relaxing in sync with hers.

"Nothing you need to worry about," she said, and he heard Vera's incomprehensible diatribe go up a few decibels on the other end of the line. Lilly sighed, visibly frustrated, and leaned backwards slightly to put some distance between Scotty and the phone. "I said _no_, Vera. That's it."

Scotty sighed heavily, and sat back on his heels as yet another explosion of static and indecipherable babble filled the air. Clearly, whatever dispute was going on between them, neither Lilly nor Vera were planning on crying chicken anytime soon; for his part, Scotty seemed to have no say in it, and could only sit there quietly and wait for them to finish shouting each other down. It was something that, as a cop, he had a lot of practise with (though never, so far as he could recall, between Lil and Nick; this was new territory), so he should've been fine with it… but, whether due to his fragile mindset or the knowledge that they were talking about Miller, the concept of remaining silent while they bitched each other out was an excruciating one.

He'd promised himself, for the sake of his own sanity, to not let thoughts of her (however she was) enter his mind until she was back in perfect health; still, he couldn't control the pulse of concern that now coursed through him, and right there alongside it the returning influx of guilt.

A huge part of him really didn't want to know what they were talking about; the further the discussion progressed (and, through that process, the louder Vera's voice grew), the angrier and tenser Lilly seemed to be growing. He'd seen her lose patience with him before – hell, he was pretty sure _everyone_ had lost patience with Vera at least once or twice – but he hadn't seen her get quite this worked up over some obnoxious point he'd made. Likewise, of all the cops on the force, Vera was the guy Scotty had never seen get out-and-out furious about anything, but the louder his voice got (though never clear enough to allow Scotty to actually hear it), the more obvious it was that he too was feeling an uncharacteristic fury at Lilly's refusal to hear him out. It wasn't like either of them to be at the other's throats, least of all in the aftermath to a crisis, and Scotty felt his pulse quicken with the resurfacing knowledge that – whatever the rift between them was – if it had to do with Miller, then it was once again his fault. He couldn't catch a break, and he was getting so damn sick of it.

"Lil…" he began again, but she was on a tangent.

"I get it, Vera, okay?" she was growling. "But what the hell do you expect me to do? It took me half a day just to get him out of bed." Scotty's ears pricked up at that, and he felt his heart rate spike at the realisation that, apparently, they were talking about him now. "He's not doing that." She made the statement so firmly that Scotty felt an irrational flare of annoyance at the fact that she seemed to be making his decisions for him without even taking the moment to check it was okay. "I don't care. I won't put him through that." Another burst of static on the other end of the line, then Lilly's voice dropped so low that Scotty had to lean in so as to catch the words. "It'd kill him, Nick. Do you really think I'm gonna let that happen?"

The resolve in her voice, and in her eyes as he watched her, almost melted Scotty completely. Almost made him forget that he was to blame for everything, almost made him forget what a screw-up he was, because in that moment it was enough that she cared about him so much and so deeply that she'd defend him to the very last. He was worth that; to someone, to one of the countless people he'd let down… to _her_, Lilly Rush… he was worth that. It was the most remarkable thing he could imagine.

It must've had a similar effect on Vera, as Lilly snapped her phone shut barely a handful of seconds later, muttering a string of obscenities under her breath. Scotty didn't say anything, merely sat there and watched her, feeling a strange kind of solace in being the one studying the chaos on someone else's face. He wanted to ask her what the conversation had been about, to have her confirm what he suspected, but he couldn't bring himself to broach that subject. Asking about it involved facing it, even indirectly, and he wasn't ready for that. Not yet. Not after he'd finally loosed some of the chains he'd tied around himself. Problem was, he knew Lilly wouldn't venture to explain herself either, and the part of him that thrived on being a cop and finding answers and seeking solutions couldn't hide its innate human curiosity. "So, uh…" he started.

"Yeah," she replied evasively, and he knew he'd have to press harder if he wanted more than that. "Just Vera, being a jackass," she went on with a frown. "As usual."

"Yeah?" he said, making a point of emphasising the note of enquiry. "What'd he do? Forget to water your plants? I never saw you lose it with him like that before."

Lilly shrugged; he knew her well enough to recognise that she had her barriers all the way up, but he supposed he was just fortunate in that he was the one person on the team who could break through them. Now, he hoped, more than ever, given the nature of what he'd shared with her. Even without saying a word, he'd poured himself out to her, let her see inside his very soul and – more even than that – let her carry the weight of it for him. It was only fair that she take the time to return the favour in kind. So, instead of pressing verbally, he fixed her with a look that took no shame in begging her to level with him, that told her just how desperately he didn't want to know, but also how – at the same time – a big part of him really did need to.

"Damn Vera," she sighed, almost to herself.

He swallowed anxiously. "What'd he want?"

Really, he should've expected the result. He was a Homicide Detective after all, and the signs had been there in neon Technicolor; the only excuse he could think of was his fragile state of mind at present, and that was an excuse he had no intention of making, ever. He wasn't the sort of guy who let his skills slip just because he'd been through a living nightmare. He wasn't the sort of guy who missed things like that and, dammit, he wasn't the sort of guy who couldn't interpret a one-sided phone-call just because he was still feeling a little overwhelmed. No. It was Lilly's state of agitation that had thrown him, nothing more.

"He wanted you, Scotty," she confessed.

A low sigh escaped his lips as all the pieces that had somehow eluded him began to fall into place. "Ain't really about him, is it?" he asked, quietly. "It's about her."

She smiled, sadly. It was easier for her, he knew, if he took some of the strain of confession from her shoulders. In the same way as she'd held his guilt for him while he'd grieved, he now had to hold some of the responsibility that came with delivering unpleasant news. They'd been a team long enough; they both knew how it worked. "Yeah," she relinquished eventually, painful. "Vera says—"

"—she wants to see me," he finished for her.

Again, she smiled, but this time there was a hint of genuine humour to it. "They don't call you _Detective_ Valens for nothing," she observed. Off his ironic chuckle, she continued. "He's got it in his head she's… eh, doesn't matter." He grimaced at that; the meaning behind the words she hadn't said was obvious enough, but what hurt was her inability to say them for fear of hurting him. He wanted to tell her that he wouldn't break if she said that Miller wasn't doing as well as she wanted them both to believe, but he couldn't get those words out. Knowing the fact was one thing, hearing it spoken aloud was another entirely.

"I ain't goin' there," he said, thinking aloud. The words came reflexively, mirroring the thoughts inside his head, the irrational and impossible insistence that he wouldn't lay eyes on Kat Miller again, not until she was out of that damn place. That he wouldn't face her, couldn't face her, that nobody could make him go there. And he didn't even think, at that moment, of what it meant that she was asking for him – that she, of all people, was _asking_ for him – only of the mind-numbing terror that seared through him like liquid fire at the mere thought of having to see her in that state, of having to see what he'd done to her, again. "I ain't goin' there," he repeated.

"I know," she replied, with a depth of empathy and understanding that stole his breath. "And that's what I told him."

He sighed and closed his eyes. Through the fish-eye lens of his mind's eye, he saw the gore-spattered walls once again, and the pain casting itself like a shadow across Kat's face; he heard her, cracking jokes and making sarcastic remarks, doing everything to hide how scared she was; he could smell the dizzying combination of blood and vomit and sweat, and added to that the salt of tears; he could taste the bitterness of Fitzpatrick's vengeance, rich on his tongue. He could see, hear, smell, taste, _feel_ everything. Even now, risen from his former despair by Lilly Rush, it was there in his mind's eye, on constant replay, and would be forever. How in the hell was he supposed to face Kat, ever, with that image burned into his mind?

As if on cue (and, hell, she knew him so well, maybe it was), Lilly's arms wrapped around him again, and he sighed as he felt himself melt into her. "She probably just wants to tell you to stop beating yourself up," she offered quietly, and Scotty smiled in spite of himself. "You know what she's like." He exhaled tightly, trying to shake the mental image of that room, and forced his eyes to open. Lilly shifted, sensing the tension in him, and let out a soft sigh of her own. "You don't need to go there," she went on, insistent, and there was something in the way she spoke that made him sit back and think twice about the words. "So she wants to talk to you, there's time enough for that when you're ready. She doesn't _need_ you there."

That was all it took. Just one simple word, and it changed everything. Scotty blinked, twice, and raised his head to fix Lilly with the steadiest gaze he could. "What if she does?" he asked, as softly as his voice would allow. "_You_ know what she's like. Don't need nothin'. Kat Miller wants somethin', she takes it, right? She don't need nothin' from no-one." He could feel Lilly's breath quickening, and knew she didn't like where this was going, but he continued in spite of her. "So what if, this time, she does? What if… what if I'm the guy who puts a bullet in her leg—" He knew she'd argue that, and put a finger over her lips to silence her before she had the chance. "—the guy who puts a bullet in her leg, and then don't come runnin' when she needs me?" He felt tears pricking behind his eyes, and silently cursed himself for them; hadn't he cried enough, dammit? "What… what if I ain't there, like I weren't there for… for…" _Elisa_. He couldn't say her name. He just couldn't.

He could sense rather than see that there were tears in her eyes too. "This isn't like that, Scotty," she whispered, in a voice that carried so much compassion he thought he might drown in it. "Miller isn't…" She trailed off, and tried again. "It's not like that. This is _nothing_ like that. You can't… you can't even compare them." A frustrated, almost pained sound escaped her, and she pulled him in close again. "I know you want to. I know you wanna pretend that doing right by Miller will mean you'll have done right by… by everyone else." She couldn't say it either, it seemed. "You can spend the rest of your life trying to save everyone from everything … but it won't change that. It wasn't your fault, you've got nothing to prove. You've got to focus on you, not her… and not _her_. This is about you, Scotty. It's about _you_. Forget about everyone else."

Scotty laughed wryly at that. "It ain't the same," he admitted. "I get that." And he did. He knew, deep inside, that she was right; the knowledge, the heart-wrenching fact that he hadn't been there for Elisa when she'd needed him – more than anyone had ever needed him before – was at the height of his thoughts, now, surfacing as if they'd never been buried at all. And, yeah, he knew this wasn't the same as that. He knew Miller was, if nothing else, rational and in control of her own mind. He knew that even thinking to compare the two was an insult to both their names. But, if there was one thing that was the same, here and then, it was the knowledge of how damn important it was to be there when someone needed you. Maybe Lil was right; maybe Miller just wanted to talk, to tell him to quit beating himself up, to throw out another of her witty retorts. But maybe she did need him… and, if she did, and he let her down… then maybe this _would_ be like that.

"Lil…" he began, and he felt her muscles contract around him. She knew what was coming. He didn't even need to say it, and she knew. Just as she knew there was nothing in the world she could say to change his mind. They both knew it would do more harm than good, that nothing but pain – for everyone involved – could possibly come of it… and yet, they both knew his hands were tied. Tied by his memories, tied by his guilt. Tied by his refusal to be that guy again, to be the guy who stood back and let people suffer. For the first time in his damn life, he finally had the chance to make right one (just _one_) of the things he'd screwed up. There was no way he could turn it down, not this time. Even if it didn't help either of them. Even if nothing came of it but more suffering. Even if it killed him. At least he'd go down knowing that – this time – he'd tried.

Lilly sighed. "Okay," she said, and that one word was filled with more strength than he'd felt in what seemed like years. He drank deep of that, let it fuel him. "Okay," she said again, and he felt himself filling up with her strength and her voice and every last piece of her that sat beside him now, not arguing and not fighting, understanding that both would be futile, but just accepting his emotions and his guilt and the depths of sorrow and rage still within him, just like she'd promised she would. "Okay. You win."

* * *

**TBC**

_A/N: Believe it or not, I'd originally planned on making this fic exactly 15 chapters long, and suddenly it's looking to end up closer to 25. Every time I tell myself to dedicate one chapter to a certain situation, it invariably ends up taking at least two. I promise this thing will be finished some time this decade, however. -.-;;_


	20. Counting the Days

_A/N: Once again, and as ever, so many thanks for the feedback; everyone is so enthusiastic and supportive, it's quite overwhelming (in the good way, of course)._

**20.  
Counting the Days**

* * *

Manning the phones was something Will Jeffries supposed he should be getting used to. At his age, he imagined it probably wouldn't be too long before that was all he was capable of doing; and, hell, it wasn't like he didn't have the experience. Even Scotty, bullwhipped as he had been by The Powers That Be after the shooting of Ed Marteson, had never been placed on desk duty. It had taken a great reserve of discipline on Will's part to keep from being just a touch jealous about that; of course, he knew that suspension had been the more severe of the two punishments (and, given the nature of Jeffries's own crime, one that he knew Stillman would never have allowed in his case), but at least it was a _man's_ punishment.

For the most part, Jeffries was a man secure enough with his own masculinity to not be the kind of guy that needed someone to reinforce that masculinity every five minutes (which was more than he could say for the boys on the team… and quite possibly the ladies, too). But still, being punished like a small kid – "go to your desk, young man! sit up straight!" – when, barely six months later, a man half his age would be treated like an adult and reprimanded accordingly… well, he couldn't deny there was no small amount of humiliation in that. Not enough to make him think about retirement, as if he ever would, but more than enough to remind him in no uncertain terms of his place. He was Will Jeffries, geriatric teenager.

At any rate, he shouldn't have been as frustrated as he was to once again find himself on phone duty, even if it was through means outside of his control this time. Stillman was the boss, and he was the guy who'd told Rush and Vera their time was best spent in consoling their respective partners (a gesture that Jeffries could understand, especially given how quiet the office was at present), so it was really the Lieutenant's duty to man the phones. Jeffries could think of a thousand more interesting things he could be doing, and they all knew the boss spent every day sitting in his office and playing with his paper-clips. Besides, it would do the old man some good to get his hands dirty once in a while, and step out of that office.

The problem was, however, that Will Jeffries wasn't the sort of guy who could just march into the boss's office and demand that he take his turn manning the phones. Granted, if there was any one member of the team who could get away with that, it was him – and he was fairly sure he wasn't flattering himself, there – but it would just feel a little tasteless to try. John was still the guy in charge, after all, and (irregardless of whether he was a geriatric or a teenager or both) Will was just one of the guys under him. He'd taken his shot in the driving seat, and he'd hated every second of it; he sure as hell wasn't about to start pushing that line any further. Besides which, he knew – deep down inside where that 'secure with his masculinity' part couldn't find it – that it wasn't the phone duty, per se, that was so deeply bothering him this time.

If he was being honest with himself (something he took great pains to be at all times, whatever the result), it was the solitude. The isolation. He felt like a piece of driftwood in the middle of an ocean, with no sign of land anywhere in any direction, just waiting for someone to realise he existed. Phone duty, he was used to. Phone duty, without the constant hum of activity as Rush and Valens came and went on their various interviews? Phone duty, without the endless buzz of Vera and Miller trying to out-insult each other for no apparent reason? Phone duty in an office that, while it wasn't empty in the strictest sense, was most definitely void of all the things that made it a home? That, he'd never get used to, in a million years.

Given the choice, he'd be out there with them. He'd be with Rush and Valens, doing whatever they were doing; Lil had been uncharacteristically secretive about exactly what was going on with Scotty, and – taking into account the circumstance – Stillman had made allowances and politely refrained from asking questions (at least to the best of Will's knowledge) until both of them were back where they belonged. He'd be with Vera and Miller, in the hospital, listening to them bitch and whine at each other, and silently taking bets on who would win a given argument. He'd be anywhere but here, sitting in front of a goddamn phone that didn't even ring. For all his self-imposed 'teenager' cracks, he'd never felt so old in his life.

Had the phone rang more than once in the entire time he'd been sitting there, he imagined it wouldn't have been so profound, but the office was quieter than he'd ever seen it. Several times, he'd found himself eyeing the stack of completed paperwork and fighting the desire to make an Origami zoo out of it, and he'd thus far managed to resist that temptation each time… but he was, after all, only human. Every man had his breaking point, and the boredom, the frustration, the helplessness, and his inherent hatred of phone duty, all combined within him to paint a picture of a man who was fast approaching his.

"Hope it's not too busy out here for you, Will." John Stillman's voice held a note of mockery that he made a point of trying very hard not to conceal, and despite his annoyance, Jeffries found his face breaking into an ironic sort of grin.

"Just can't get the staff these days," he replied, deadpan.

John chuckled, sadly, and sat himself down on the edge of the desk, causing Jeffries to blink a little in disdain. It was by no means unusual for him to see people lounging about on the tables and making the place look untidy; Miller was the worst culprit (for much of her first year in Homicide, Jeffries had been tempted to take her aside and quietly demand to know whether she actually knew what a chair was), but she certainly wasn't the only one. Nonetheless, it was a look that suited her, reinforcing the image she worked so hard to sustain; it had quite the opposite effect on Stillman, one that unnerved Jeffries to see. Perhaps he had just a little bit of the ageist in him, after all, but there was a marked aura of youth and cockiness in someone having the gall to sit on the table when there was a perfectly good chair right behind it, and that didn't really tally with the air of age and refinement that came with John Stillman. It was a juxtaposition, and one that didn't sit well with Will.

The boss sat there, perched like a parakeet on the edge of the table, for a few long moments; Jeffries waited for him to say something, expecting a reprimand or complaint of some sort ("I saw you looking at that paperwork, Will… we discussed this 'Origami' habit of yours…"), but nothing was forthcoming. He exhaled, wishing not for the first time that one of the damn phones would ring, and finally gave up the attempt at looking busy, surrendering his last shred of dignity by looking Stillman square in the eye and sighing.

"Did you need something, Boss?" he asked. The use of John's title had taken on an entirely new meaning for him since he'd been forced to dabble in that position himself. He'd hated it, and he'd pulled no punches in making sure they all knew that. Looking back, he supposed that had been his first mistake; never tell Philly Homicide that they were doing something which pissed you off. Soon as they found out they had that on you, they'd never stop. Vera had started it (he seemed to start all the infuriating bad habits, now that Will thought on it), and the others had been quick to follow suit, until such a point that Jeffries had been almost tempted to adopt the role of Big Boss Man if only it would grant him the power to order them to shut the hell up. So maybe he was using the word deliberately now, re-drawing that line between himself and Stillman, for both their sakes. Reminding himself that John was in charge, and he was manning-the-phones guy. Still, even with that reiterated knowledge, he couldn't keep from furthering his query. "You're making the place look untidy."

Stillman raised a puzzled eyebrow, then glanced down at himself and realised his position. Hopping off the desk in a single fluid motion, he nonetheless offered nothing more than a casual shrug in response to Jeffries's curious gaze, and turned his attention to the question itself. "Nothing in particular," he admitted, the words coming off almost like he was a sinner in a confessional box. "Just wanted to see how you were doing out here. Holding down the fort all by yourself… it's not exactly the most exciting job in the world." He shrugged again, making a point of leaving his observations there, for Will to confirm or deny as he saw fit.

Jeffries returned his shrug in kind. "Place is pretty dead," he agreed, trying not to let the restlessness seep into his voice. This wasn't like the last time he'd been here, he had to remind himself; he wasn't on desk duty because he was being punished. He was here because his colleagues' places were elsewhere, because someone needed to 'hold down the fort' (as Stillman habitually and so very eloquently put it) while they did what was needed. He was here because he was the one guy who didn't 'get' what was going on. Nobody had taken the time to explain what exactly had happened to Valens and Miller, and why would they? He was just Will Jeffries, nobody important. Oh, he knew the basic details, garbled as they were… but it wasn't enough to really understand the situation. He was a detective, it was his job to understand every situation, however dissociated from it he was. It wasn't fair (and, even as the thought entered his mind, he knew that he was regressing from geriatric teenager to geriatric five-year-old) that they hadn't taken the time to fill him in. It wasn't fair that they didn't think he cared enough to be sitting at his desk and worrying himself sick over them. Didn't they know him?

There was a wry smile playing across Stillman's lips; though Will had only said four words, he got the distinct feeling that John had heard every thought running through his mind. Maybe that was why he fit the role of boss… because, when all was said and done, the simple fact of the matter was that he was the best. They were all great in their own way – Lil, with her ability to look right into a suspect's soul and see what hid there; Scotty with his passion for seeing justice served; Vera with his unrivalled capacity for turning up the heat; Miller with her stubborn refusal to take any crap from anyone; and, yeah, even old man Jeffries himself, with his soft-spoken observations. But, in John Stillman, all those traits combined in a shimmering rainbow of experience and knowledge. Stillman was the mater of his craft; to Jeffries, at least, there was no other. And, even now, with just the two of them there, he was still that man, the wry smile darkening briefly. "So, how _are_ you doing out here?"

Even if he had set it in his mind to lie (which he hadn't, and never would), there would have been no point. In a strange sort of way, even though John looked at him through the eyes of a friend, it would've been like lying to his father. Even if he said nothing, he'd _know_… and they'd both know that he'd known. It just wasn't worth that. So it was a good thing, really, that Will Jeffries had no intention of lying, instead allowing the faintest trace of sorrow to touch his face as he sighed. "It's too quiet out here, Boss."

Stillman chuckled, a little politely and a little apologetically. "Philadelphia Homicide," he said with an understated sort of dryness. "Where nobody's happy unless someone's dead."

Jeffries shrugged, echoing the other man's chuckle. He let the joke, small as it had been, hang on the air for a few long moments, in the hope that it would chase away some of the shadows that clung to every corner of the damn office. It was a doomed effort, as he'd rather expected it would be, and he thus gave up on his optimism with another dismissive gesture. "Wasn't talking about the phones," he confessed.

The semi-good humour left Stillman's face as if it had never been there. The man was an expert at that, shifting his expression to suit the mood with such a natural fluidity that Jeffries was left wondering if he'd imagined the humour in the first place. He didn't say anything, not right away, but the telltale glance around the eerily quiet office told Will all he needed to know. "I see," he said, eventually. "I… see."

It was hard for him, and Will could understand that, to admit that he was feeling the same way. That the quietude of the office wasn't just reflective of a few absent cops, but that it reflected more prominently how deeply the presence of those cops made the place a homestead instead of an office. It was difficult for both of them to admit that – both being sufficiently in touch with their own emotions to accept it within their own mind, but not quite secure enough to come out and admit it in public – but to do so in the place itself, surrounded as they were with the emptiness and the secluded solitude? That made it all the more impossible.

Jeffries took a deep breath, held it for a long moment, and found himself fiddling idly with the finished paperwork that was still just begging to be made into Origami giraffes. "How long before…?" he opened, letting the rest of the question hang elusively. _How long before it's back to normal?_

The other man shrugged. "Give 'em till tomorrow," he said, speaking almost as if he was running the question over in his mind and not actually aware of the fact that he was uttering his thoughts aloud. "Lil and Nick, anyway. Not like there's anything going on that needs 'em right now. Might as well let them have their moments." He sighed, making no feints at hiding the sadness; it was obvious to Jeffries that Lilly's absence, more even than Valens' and Miller's, was preying heavily on the boss's mind. Lilly Rush didn't take time out for personal reasons, but she'd been insistent (at least so far as Will had figured out) that Scotty had needed her to be with him if possible. That was more telling than anything else, and both the older detectives knew it.

For just a single instant, Jeffries found himself wanting to ask, '_and what about our moments?'_, but the words would not come. He knew how precious the connection between Rush and Valens was (hell, he'd have to be a blind man not to see that), and that – if anyone should be taking time out to make sure the man was okay, it would be her. It could only ever be her. But, dammit, Will Jeffries cared too. And, once again, he found his fingers tightening with barely-repressed frustration at the knowledge that it didn't matter whether he did. Rush was there for Valens, and Vera was there for Miller. Where did that leave the old man?

Something in the thought must've painted itself across his face, as he suddenly felt the solid weight of Stillman's hand on his shoulder, reassuring and firm. He didn't say anything about the point aloud, but the simplicity of the gesture – as often seemed to be the case between them – was enough to let Will knew that he knew everything he was thinking. Yeah, John Stillman was the best damn detective in Philadelphia, and nobody and nothing could convince Will Jeffries that such wasn't the case. It was a simple fact, so far as he was concerned, and it was one that filled him with a sense of pride every time it came to mind.

"No word on… the others?" he asked, courage rising in him.

Stillman flinched, the topic clearly a sore spot for him. "No."

And now it was Will's turn to place a hand on the Lieutenant's shoulder, lighter and softer but no less reassuring. It was tragically obvious that John blamed himself for what had happened, as any half-decent boss would do in the same situation. He'd been the one who'd sent them out there, who hadn't double- and triple-checked the facts of the situation, who'd been so damn happy to finally have something, in a quiet week, to give his team to do, he would've leaped on anything. And, because of that recklessness (at least as much as Stillman could see of it), two of his cops – two of his _kids_ – had been brutalised, the one physically and the other psychologically. It was tearing the boss up, too, and it tore Jeffries apart all the more to realise that.

Still, he couldn't help musing, maybe that was why he was the one sitting here manning the phones while Rush was with Valens and Vera was with Miller. Maybe he was right where he was supposed to be, beside the man at the heart of the entire team. The man everyone else seemed to forget about, because he was The Boss and he didn't let the little things affect him; he did his job to the best of his ability and then he moved on. Nobody ever stopped to think that maybe it broke Stillman's heart to think of his kids in pain.

Will Jeffries wasn't the guy who could change that. He wasn't the guy who could find the words to tell John that it wasn't his fault, that he hadn't done anything wrong, and that this sort of thing just happened. He wasn't the guy who could pick the boss up when he needed it. But he was the guy who could sit here now, by his friend's side – his friend, now, not the big boss man – and understand that feeling. He didn't need to be the guy throwing out all those feel-good lies about things getting better and changing. John Stillman was a no-nonsense cop and a no-nonsense man, a man who would find those lies to be condescending and patronising (and who would be well within his right to feel that way). He'd been in the game long enough to know that things weren't black-and-white, that the cops didn't always win, and that good people sometimes got hurt. No amount of optimism could change that… and the empty words of one Will Jeffries sure as hell couldn't, either.

But none of that mattered. What mattered was the fact he was _here_. He wasn't taking time off to be with Scotty Valens, he wasn't taking time off to be with Kat Miller. His time was spent here, with John Stillman, and he'd never in his life felt more certain that he was right where he belonged.

There was a huge void, and one he was feeling the presence of more and more with each passing day and each growing ache within his bones, between himself and the younger members of the team. They'd never say it, not in a million years, but he wasn't really one of them. They saw him as the old guy, the guy with all the experience and the history and all those things that weren't 'hip' and 'cool'; they saw him as the guy who should never have been punished like a schoolboy for slugging a guy who deserved it, 'cause he was too old for that. And, hell, he could understand them seeing that guy… because he _was_ that guy. And, yeah, he resented having to now be that guy. He was too young to be old, and too damn old to still be young.

He had no place outside these four walls, not now; even though he'd been the one Miller had confided the details of her first experience in Fishtown, he knew she wouldn't do the same now. That had been then; she'd been new and green, and desperate to impress the boss's right-hand man, and he'd been polite in his phrasing of the question. It wasn't like that now, and the transition hadn't been aided by his brief stint in Stillman's shoes. Any chance he'd had of retaining his position as 'one of them' had been lost then. He wasn't Will Jeffries anymore, he was Detective Jeffries, the guy who was just gonna have to get used to the fact that – when Stillman _did_ retire, which he would have to do one day – he was the next Big Boss Man. That was where he was going, that was the only path left for him to take. He wasn't the boss, he'd hated being the boss even for five minutes, but he knew it was how they saw him. He wasn't their buddy, he was an extension of Stillman.

To John, though, he was still that guy. The guy who was under him and older than him and probably a lot brighter than him, but still not as damn good. The only one of the team who'd allowed the Lieutenant to see him at his most vulnerable. Scotty Valens would never dream of letting the big guy see him hurt; Jeffries remembered the younger detective's own past catching up with him – an unfortunate incident involving a drug runner that Scotty had been involved with, so to speak – and he remembered how closed-off Valens had become around the boss. As if it had physically pained him to know that Stillman was seeing him in that light. Stillman was the school principal and Valens fancied himself the cocky football star who could do no wrong. Shattering that illusion, Will knew, had been one of the hardest things Valens had had to face in his entire career.

Stillman just exuded that, a sort of energy that inspired everyone around him to wish themselves better than they were, to make people long to improve just so they could be deserving of his praise. And nobody was exempt from that glow, except Will Jeffries. He knew the Lieutenant too well by now to fall into that trap, and he was too set in his ways to expect any change in his routine now. His life was long past its expiration date by now, just as Stillman's was (and the other man's recent ponderings about retirement had only lent evidence to Jeffries's assumption on that score), and there was nothing either of them could do now to slow or speed up the inevitable decline. All they could do, together, was to keep each other company and watch as their stars slowly and gradually burned themselves out.

"They're good cops, John," he said quietly. "They'll be back."

He met the other man's eyes, and was stunned (there was no other word to so accurately describe the numb shock that coursed through him at the sight) to see tears shining in them. John Stillman was the picture of professionalism; tears were a language he didn't speak, and it affected Will on a level he didn't even know he'd had to see the unshakeable boss surrender to them. He opened his mouth to throw out something hollow and reassuring, but John held up a hand to silence him, clearly trying to find his own voice.

"Tell me again," he said, when he found himself able to, in a voice that was more fragile than anything Will had ever heard from him. "Tell me again, why retirement is a bad idea."

Jeffries laughed, the sound bitter and sorrowful. He could barely even imagine the inner turmoil that must've been running through Stillman's mind at that moment; first Rush, earlier that year, and now Miller. His two girls, and – in a strange sort of way, Will knew – his two protégés. Lilly Rush, the woman he'd picked out from day one, the woman who'd oozed potential for as long as either man had known her. The one who looked up to Stillman more than everyone else in Philadelphia put together. His daughter, practically, in every conceivable sense of the word, and he being the only thing even close to a real father figure she'd had. To see her shot, and to know it should've been him instead, had broken his heart into pieces that Will was frankly astounded had ever been put back together. And now, Kat Miller, the slip of a girl he'd singled out from one chance meeting, pulled out of the backstreets of Narcotics, and shaped into one of the most perceptive detectives on the team. He never felt for her quite as deeply as he felt for Rush (nobody else could ever reach that mark, and everyone knew it)… but, every now and then, when Miller was running on a particularly hot streak, Jeffries had caught the Lieutenant looking at her with eyes that blazed so bright with pride that they were almost blinding. He'd taken her in, brought her under his wing, and helped her to grow… and, in those moments, his eyes practically sang, '_that's my girl'_.

Hell, if their positions had been reversed, and Will Jeffries was the one looking through John Stillman's eyes, feeling that remorse and that loss and the pain so deep he might as well have been shot both times himself… yeah, he would have retired. He would've thrown his badge down, walked out of that office, and never looked back. But he wasn't strong like John. He was the guy John had needed to pull back from the edge when a case had gotten too personal, the guy who'd almost shot a man in cold blood because that man had killed his wife in a freak negligent accident… the guy who, even now, felt a large part of him scream with self-loathing because he hadn't been able to do the deed. When trauma hunted down Will Jeffries, Will Jeffries cowered in terror. He didn't know what to do. But that wasn't John Stillman. John Stillman took the worst of everything, and rose like a phoenix, higher and brighter and better than before. He could no more retire than the phoenix could understand the permanence of death, and that was the way things were and should always be. They needed him, even now, more than any team had ever needed any leader. John Stillman was more than the glue holding them together, he was the very essence, the building blocks of what and who they were. He _was_ the team.

"C'mon, John…" he said, quietly. "Who are we, without you?"

"You're a damn good team," Stillman replied, not skipping a beat. "Hell… you're the best. With or without me." Even before Will had opened his mouth, John cut him off. "I've made a lot of mistakes, Will. We're both old enough and wise enough to know it, however you want to sugar-coat it."

"Done a lot of good things, too," Jeffries threw back, calmly.

John chuckled at that, the sound wan but not emotionless. It wasn't much, but it was a start, and Will felt himself smile a little. The boss allowed his hand to linger on the other man's shoulder, just a moment, before he stepped down from his awkward perch. His eyes wandered over the silent phone, briefly, before coming to rest on his friend. "Care for a drink?" he asked, eventually. "To absent friends?"

The smile on Jeffries's face softened comfortably; drinking on duty wasn't – technically speaking – permitted, but it was a rule that Stillman had been famously known to flout on occasion (usually, when the occasion in question was one - like this - that damn well needed a drink to make it bearable). This wasn't the first time, and it sure as hell wouldn't be the last. And, frankly, with nothing to do but sit and stare at a phone that had taken it upon itself to seemingly never ring ever again, nothing appealed to Will Jeffries more at that moment than a sly sip of booze with an old and deeply respected friend.

"A drink would be great," he replied. "Boss."

* * *

**TBC**

_A/N: I hadn't planned on writing another 'filler' chapter, but Will decided to get into my head and start yelling "hey, John and I have our angst, too!" and refused to shut up until I promised to give them centre stage for a chapter. For this, I blame oucellogal's Insightful!Jeffries, as featured in "Every Time Two Fools Collide". Give the guy an inch, and he'll take a mile. ;-)_

_Back to the emotional roller-coaster that is everyone else for the next chapter, however…_


	21. Reach

_A/N: Once again, and with just as much enthusiasm as always, innumerable thanks for all the feedback. :-D_

**21.  
Reach**

* * *

Inhaling the sharp disinfectant smell of the hospital corridor, Lilly had to struggle to keep herself from wincing. She hated the place, yeah, and hated herself all the more for allowing herself to hate it. Especially now, when she was here with Scotty, who needed her to stay strong and brave and who – more than anyone else in the world – could never learn of her acquired hatred of hospitals. It was just another in an increasingly long line of things he would no doubt blame himself for, and she'd finally got him to see further than his own place in the unfortunate tragedies that seemed to follow him around so relentlessly. To admit that there was a greater depth than he knew to what had happened to her, right now, would destroy all her work. More even, if such a thing was in fact possible, than his own presence now in this damn place.

She wanted to talk to him, to ask him if he was sure, to tell him they could still go back home if he wanted, but she couldn't bring herself to shatter the sterilised silence of the corridor. It was hallowed, almost, and it was more than she could do to break it. So, instead, she focussed her energies on making a feint at looking (if not actually feeling) the part of supportive partner, and following the vague directions they'd been given; finding anything in a place like this was difficult enough, but as soon as the word 'cop' became involved, suddenly everything became twice as frustrating. Naturally, as it turned out, she needn't have bothered trying to pick apart the paradox of "keep going left until you end up back where you started, and then you're nearly there"; instead, she discovered rather too late, they could have (rather more easily) opted to follow the rhythmic '_thud, thud, thud'_ that permeated the entire corridor – and half the hospital, Lilly guessed. It was the unmistakeable sound of Vera repeatedly hitting the wall with his head.

In spite of the ongoing noise and his unsubtle stature, it took Lilly a few moments to spot him. He stood, outside what she assumed to be Miller's room, leaning against the wall in what he probably figured was a charming and boyishly cute manner, and lightly driving his head back against said wall in what looked from his expression to be an act of rather impatient boredom.

Seeing him standing there, restless and uneasy, did nothing to quash the aggravation that rose unbidden within Lilly at the sight of him. She wanted to cast that aside, to see him as a colleague, to see him as the Nick Vera who irritated everyone but whom nobody could really stay mad at. She wanted to be professional about this, about her anger at Vera for bringing them here, her loathing of hospitals, her own quietly-seething issues that still – even now – lay underneath everything she did and thought and felt. She wanted to be Lilly Rush, the one everyone saw and respected, not the one she felt growing underneath her skin with every moment that passed, and every quiet heartbeat of a '_thud'_ as Vera's head continued its unpleasant rhythm of contact with the wall. And she stopped dead, watching him from a distance – far enough that he wouldn't catch sight of her unless he was looking, and she'd made damn sure that their phone conversation had ended in such a way that would ensure he didn't – and waiting for the anger to abate just a bit.

It didn't. She wanted it to, so desperately, but it didn't… and, as luck would have it, Scotty Valens wasn't nearly so patient as she was in waiting for her issues to resolve themselves with no effort whatsoever on her part. He took a step forward, every inch the courageous cop that Lilly knew too well he was a far cry from in actuality, and raised a bruised and bloodied hand at the larger man in greeting. "Yo," he said, voice hoarse and tired, but solid. "Ain'tcha on the wrong side of the door, Nick?"

Vera jumped, almost toppling over in sheer surprise, and stared at Scotty as if he were the second coming. "Hey," he said, unable to keep the gratitude from sneaking into his voice (and Lilly noted that he made a point of not glancing at her as he spoke). "You came."

The statement hung on the air for a few long seconds, nobody else deigning to break the silence with confirmation or denial of the fact, and neither Scotty nor Vera made any attempts to close the distance between them any further than it had been already. Lilly exhaled, knowing before she even let the sound escape her that it would be brusque and harsh and probably unfairly so, but she made no feint at hiding the sentiment from her face once the breath had made those feelings clear for her.

"She sleeping?" she asked, tilting her head towards the door, in a tone that she hoped would force Vera to explain his position outside it without accusing him of shirking his duty. The last thing Scotty needed was his colleagues to getting into a catfight in the hall.

Vera blinked at the question, as if trying to understand it, then frowned. "Uh, no…" he admitted, sounding more than a little uncomfortable (though, whether it was the nature of the question or the fact that Lilly had been the one to ask it, she had absolutely no idea). "She, uh…" He leaned his head back once again, and the '_thud'_ of it once again striking the wall almost cut off the remainder of his explanation. "She got sick. Too much cafeteria Jell-O, too many meds, I dunno. I didn't wanna—"

And then, Lilly just couldn't keep her anger from boiling over. "You didn't want to get your hands dirty," she finished for him. If she'd taken a moment to think about it, she would've realised that she couldn't exactly blame him for that – as cops, dealing with bodily unpleasantries was par for the course, but not one of them would've done so out of choice if they could've stepped out of the room – only she'd been predisposed to be angry with him before he'd even opened his mouth, and (in true Nick Vera style) he sure as hell wasn't doing a great job of proving her initial biases wrong. Even now, her accusation hanging between them like a big red flag, he simply stood there and took it, not even deigning to throw back a reply. Maybe that should've told her something about his state of mind in that instant, but Lilly hadn't wanted to be here in the first place, and she'd be damned if she was gonna waste her time worrying about the one guy who needed her concern the least of all. "For once in your life, Vera, you should try being a man."

Finally, he did open his mouth to argue, but Lilly was done listening. She pushed past him with a brusqueness that clearly said '_the sooner we get this over with, the sooner we get the hell out of here, and you're not gonna drag this out another minute, Nick Vera'_, and stormed into the room with a level of annoyance and impatience that she knew wouldn't be fair to inflict on Miller but that had spiralled so far out of control by this point that it was all she could do to keep herself from exploding.

"Hey, Lil."

Despite herself and all her anger at being in this position in the first place, Lilly blinked in surprise. Kat was leaning uncomfortably over the bedside table, head resting on her forearms, in such an awkward position that there was no way she could've known it was Lilly there instead of Vera or Scotty without raising her head to look up. And yet, she could tell, in that unnerving way she had of just _knowing_ things. "Hey," said Lilly, feeling her fury abate a little at the pathetic figure now in front of her.

"Scotty with you?" Kat asked, and Lilly noticed sadly that she made no attempt to raise her head, as if the motion would've taken more strength than she had left. "I gotta see him. I—" Her shoulders heaved for a single spasmodic second, but she regained control.

"Take it easy," Lilly suggested, with a gentleness that surprised her. Oh, she'd been here. She'd always thought she'd been unable to remember anything from her time in one of these beds. Just that damn disinfectant smell, and the tickling discomfort that came with being here. But never this. She'd always thought she'd been spared those memories, but of course she hadn't. They came flooding back to her now, vivid and bright and painful, her own stomach churning in sympathy, and her shoulder blooming with pain. She'd been here, on so many meds that did so little, unable to eat or drink or even breathe without feeling so sick she wanted to roll over and die. In so much pain, in spite of the damn meds, she couldn't help marvel at the fact that she _hadn't_ died. Yeah, she'd been here. Much as she'd tried to convince herself she didn't remember anything but the loneliness and the neon lights, she couldn't hide the fact. And she couldn't sustain her anger at Vera, then, much as she wanted to, sympathy and empathy now flowing through her like ice water.

"God," Kat was mumbling, voice thick, somehow managing to sound deeply miserable and just plain cranky at the same time. "It wasn't this bad last time."

_Lucky you_, Lilly thought, but she kept that particular sentiment to herself. Aloud, she let out a polite chuckle. "It was different last time," she pointed out, realising how ironic the words were even as they left her lips. Kat grunted in acknowledgement of that, but didn't correct her; Lilly couldn't deny being a little grateful for that. She would be the first to admit that, of the entire team, she knew the least about how and when Miller had been shot the first time, but she'd pieced together enough about this time to know that there were too many similarities for it to be a coincidence. "The same, obviously…" she went on, a little hesitant. Crap, she was bad at this. "But different. I mean, last time… you get shot, your partner takes the guy down, you're out of there ten minutes later? This time…" And here, she felt herself trail off, grimacing uncomfortably; Kat was still-face down over the table, making it impossible for Lilly to figure out whether she was stepping on dangerous ground by even broaching the subject at all. When no kind of interruption was forthcoming, she pressed on, reluctantly. "It wasn't just ten minutes. Guy had you bleeding to death, fearing for your life, for _hours_."

Kat coughed, indignant. "Fear, my ass."

"Fine," Lilly retorted, in no mood to deal with Kat Miller's brand of wannabe-heroism. "Guy had you bleeding to death and _mildly concerned _for your life. Point is…" Here, she heard her tone softening a little, in spite of herself. "Point is, a dozen cops tougher than you would've been dead long before we got there. You got through the hard part; I don't even know how you did it… but you did."

She was lying through her teeth, and they both knew it. Lilly knew, better than anyone else on the team – better even than Kat herself had known, up 'till now – how much worse this part was. This was the part she'd convinced herself she couldn't remember, the part she'd repressed and ignored. This was the part that hadn't even featured in her nightmares, because her subconscious had an easier time dealing with the blinding white light and the prospect of death and the loneliness of knowing there was nobody there at the other end. That was easier than this. Seeing death glowing bright before your eyes wasn't nearly so terrifying as lying in the dark and knowing you'd have to live the rest of your life with the memory of having seen it. It was brutal and frightening, and once again the memories of being here herself flooded through Lilly; the physicality of it didn't help, either. The pain, the nausea, the dull pulsing discomfort that couldn't really be described as anything at all but which underlay everything else and couldn't be ignored. All poignant and unrelenting reminders of what her body had been through, enduring on and on and on until she couldn't help wonder if maybe it would have been the more humane option to give up at the start. Staying alive was easy, but not dying was difficult.

"The hard part?" Kat exhaled. "_This_ is the hard part." Finally, she raised her head, moving so slowly that Lilly found herself moving forward to try and offer what futile help she could. A pained whimper – too soft to be a cry – escaped Kat's lips as she tried to reposition her body enough to lay back down, and Lilly felt her lungs constrict a little at the sight. This was what she hadn't wanted to see, what she hadn't wanted to believe. Acknowledging that Kat was broken, on the inside and the outside and all the damn places that Vera had talked about, meant also acknowledging that Lilly had been broken too, that she knew – even with her loyalties placed so firmly with Scotty – that she knew how badly shattered the other woman would be, because she'd been there herself… and facing the one meant she'd have to face the other. She wanted to pull Kat into a hug, tell her that one day she'd wake up and feel like herself again, that the pain and the nausea and the horror would be gone. But she knew it didn't work that way. Even now. Even now, despite all her insistences and outward appearances and all those worthless things, Lilly Rush was still broken… so what chance did Kat Miller have?

"It's hard," she admitted, so quietly that she could almost hope Kat hadn't heard her. "It's… it's really hard." That was the closest to a confession she'd ever allowed herself, and it felt like a weight had been lifted from her shoulders and her lungs and every last part of her, if only for the briefest of moments. "But, hey. You got yourself through _that_, right? You can get through anything."

"I didn't get myself through it," Kat replied, in a voice so thick with shame and self-loathing that it stole Lilly's breath to hear. "_He_ got me through it." She grasped Lilly's hand in both of hers, practically begging. "He kept me goin'. Stopped me giving up, even… even…" And she was stumbling so heartbreakingly over the words that Lilly knew what was coming before she ever said anything, and she felt herself ripped apart with empathy and sympathy and the sick realisation that – through all her compassion for Scotty – that bastard Nick Vera had been right about this. "Even when I wanted to die. He kept me alive. And I… I never got to thank him." She released Lilly's hand, with the fatigue of someone who'd used up their last energy on a confession that hadn't even mattered. "I gotta see him. I know he shouldn't be here, and I get that you're probably mad at me for even askin'… and, hell, I don't blame you. He's your boy." She smiled, knowing and tender, so deep it suggested she somehow knew every last detail of everything that would ever pass between Lilly and Scotty for the rest of their lives. "But we gotta do this, Lil. Him an' me. We gotta."

"Yeah," Lilly said, soft and sincere. "You do."

-

* * *

-

"So… you wanna grab a beer or something?"

Before the other man had even had the chance to turn on him with the classic '_are you kidding me?'_ eyebrow-raise, Nick Vera had readied his most charming grin. Wasn't a human being alive who could resist that grin, and he knew Scotty Valens well enough by now to know that even he couldn't stay mad at Vera when the larger man was turning on the charm. Still, the eyebrow-raise came, but it was alongside a carefully-concealed (but present nonetheless) smirk. That was all Vera had wanted, that hint of humour, and he was more than willing to risk the other eyebrow going up too, if it meant he'd got that smirk.

"Not here for you, big guy," Scotty grinned.

Despite himself, Vera felt a twinge of concern; he'd worked with Scotty for years now, including more all-night research marathons than either of them would like to remember, and he'd never heard such a deep-set exhaustion in the other man's voice. It was as if he'd been up for an entire month, as if the research had all been in Aramaic, hand-written by rabid chickens. But it wasn't the exhaustion that so affected Vera; it was the recollection of his phone conversation with Rush, the anxiety in her voice as she'd told him that it had taken half a day for her to get the boy out of bed. A guy who'd been in bed a day didn't sound like he'd been up for a month trying to get his head around rabid Aramaic chicken-scratch; he was the guy who came into work, knocked back a cup of coffee, and spent the rest of the day bouncing off the walls. Not getting enough sleep was part of their job; Vera was pretty sure he'd never met a cop who'd been inflicted with too much of the stuff. For all he knew, maybe an overabundance of exhaustion was the natural reaction to an overabundance of sleep… but, something in his gut told him that wasn't the case, at least not with Scotty, and if there was one thing Nick Vera had learned early in the game, it was to always listen when his gut was talking to him.

He didn't rise to the bait, though; he knew better than to give his gut every damn thing it asked for. Problem was, it wanted him to look at Scotty and see the guy Lilly insisted he'd become, and not the guy that Vera knew he really was. Nah, he didn't need to do that. He could look at him, see the exhaustion and know that it shouldn't be there; he could look at him and see someone who'd been through Hell and come back from it and, yeah, who wouldn't be tired after that? And he knew it wasn't Scotty behind those dark-circled eyes, that it wasn't his fun-loving homie grinning back at him at all, but there was nothing in the world that Nick Vera did better than closing his eyes and pretending he couldn't see all that. Yea, his gut and his instincts and all those stupid-ass parts of him that didn't know what was best for 'em, sure, they could tell him things weren't right. Sure they could. And he'd be a good boy and listen to 'em, and take in all the evidence they threw at him and absorb the facts like a Homicide Detective should, and weigh his beliefs against what was real… and, at the end of all that, he'd throw the damn facts right back at them and tell 'em to go to Hell. Reality was one thing – Nick Vera's gut and his instincts knew Reality all too well – but acceptance? That was a whole new ball game, and one he really didn't feel like playing right now, thanks. He'd stick with softball, it was more his kind of sport. Safer. Easier.

"Oh, I get it," he said, allowing himself to step away from the wall and fix Scotty with a cynical frown. "Miller asks for you, you're here before I've even hung up the damn phone." He scowled, mock-wounded. "Ol' Vera wants a beer with his buddy, you got better stuff to do?"

"Somethin' like that," Scotty replied, with a wan attempt at a laugh. A flash of red cut across Vera's field of vision as the other man brought a hand up to massage his temples, and the larger cop tried real damn hard not to look at the bloodied knuckles. Looking at them meant acknowledging them, and that would mean accepting that something was wrong. And that was something Nick Vera wasn't ready to do just yet, something that – thankfully – Scotty was more than willing to help him with, as he went on. "So… c'mon, man. Level with me here." He sighed, the stoic exhalation of a man who was preparing himself to ask a question he _really_ didn't want to hear the answer to; if Vera had given himself up to truly feel for the other man, his heart would have gone out to him right then. "How's she doin', really?"

For a long moment, Vera didn't reply, merely stood there and examined Scotty with an intensity that the other cop must have recognised as the same kind he used on particularly troublesome suspects. His reflex reaction was simply to tell Scotty exactly what he'd told Lilly; after all, what was the point in holding back if he didn't really believe Scotty was doing as badly as Lil had said? But something – and it wasn't his gut or his instincts or anything he could give a name to – _something_ was telling him to hold back. It didn't even give him a good reason, it just said that he really ought to stop and think before opening his mouth and saying something stupid… and, far more than if it had been his instinct, Vera found himself taking heed.

The anxiety in Scotty's eyes as he spoke wasn't unusual, so it couldn't be that. Vera had seen that anxiety before, more than once, and he'd done what any good guy friend would've done in the same situation (namely, pretended it hadn't existed). It sounded cold, he knew, but that was what guys did. If a guy had issues, so said the Nick Vera School of Sympathy, he hid 'em. If a guy was feeling bad about himself, there was nothing more likely to make him feel even worse than knowing that all the other guys in the room could see it. It was fine for the girls to give him a hug and say '_there, there'_ – hell, most guys lived for that – but the sexes weren't equal; a guy could never get away with throwing out compassion the way a girl could, and a guy sure as hell couldn't get away with taking compassion from anyone other than a girl. That was just the way things were, the way they'd been for as long as Nick Vera had been the embodiment of Perfect Man; he couldn't change them now. So it was weird, and he couldn't deny it, that he was looking at Scotty now, seeing that familiar anxiety in his eyes, and finding himself compelled to spare the other guy's feelings. To lie for the sake of making him feel better. To take that compassionate approach and be the guy that no guy was allowed to be. It went against everything he believed and everything that his friendship with Scotty was. But there it was, and there he was, and – hard as he tried – for reasons beyond his understanding, suddenly he was powerless to fight against it.

"She's doin' fine," he said, with a smile that he hoped beyond hope didn't appear too rueful. "Whining about those damn donuts. As if it's my fault she can't eat 'em, y'know?" He rolled his eyes, a little too dramatically. "Do somethin' nice, and this is what I get. Women… right?"

Almost imperceptibly, Scotty's face relaxed. "Women, right," he agreed, then frowned as if struck by a thought so complex that it tore apart his entire belief system. "Wait. You tellin' me _you_ did a nice thing? For _Miller_? C'mon, man, who d'you think you're kiddin'?" And he sounded so bemused by the whole concept, so disdainful of the ideal that Vera couldn't even bring himself to feel insulted. This, right here, this was Scotty Valens all right. That guy hiding behind his eyes, that anxious frightened victim of a guy? Nah, that wasn't him. This was. This obnoxious smartass who couldn't quite figure out that Nick Vera was the cooler of the two. This was his buddy, right here. Lilly Rush didn't know what the hell she was talkin' about.

"Yeah, yeah," he replied, more than happy to let himself be the butt of Scotty's jokes if it meant holding off on that inevitable acceptance for just a few moments longer. "So what if Nick Vera ain't always a selfish bastard?" he went on. "Hell, they were crappy donuts anyway."

Scotty was looking at him sideways, and now it was Vera who recognised all too well the look of a cop trying to get inside the head of a suspect he knew was holding out on him. In spite of himself, and in spite of the knowledge that it was just Scotty, Vera found himself twitching uneasily beneath that look; it was as if Scotty could see right through the bravado, and see the concern painted underneath. Vera couldn't let that happen, for both their sakes. It was all right for Lilly to know, for him to confess to her behind the near-anonymity of a telephone line, just how worried he'd been when he'd made that call. It was okay for her, 'cause she was a chick. The rule didn't apply to her, even when he was the one seeking comfort. But it applied here.

For a thousand reasons, it applied here, for a thousand reasons Vera couldn't face the all-too-familiar interrogator's eye that Scotty now shone ruthlessly on him. For himself, the thought of Scotty seeing that anxiety, that fear, the simple fact that he _cared_, it was more than he could take. For Scotty too; they both knew it would break him apart to know that Miller wasn't fine, that it would bring to the surface memories that – so far as Vera's blinkered mind was concerned – he seemed to be dealing with just fine right now, and Vera couldn't do that to him. Because of the rule, and because (deep, deep down inside, where the part of him still clinging to the rule and his own qualms about Kat couldn't find it)… because maybe he was scared to death for Scotty, too. Because maybe he could see the glow of his buddy, the guy who laughed and made fun of Nick Vera for doing a nice thing, and still – out of the corner of his eye, even through the blinkers – see that damn blood on his hands, the canvas of destruction and pain that he wore like a bandage. Because he was a cop, and it was his goddamn job to see things like that, everywhere he went, the little details that gave away the deepest secrets… and he couldn't turn it off. He wanted to, he wanted to see Scotty Valens, his little buddy, just Scotty. But he couldn't turn off who he was, and all the desperation and denial in the world couldn't keep his eyes averted forever.

And that was it. Just thinking it, just allowing himself to entertain the thoughts for even a moment… that was all it took, and he knew that Scotty would see all that and more behind his eyes because he was a goddamn cop too, and it was his job to see that Vera was lying just as much as it was Vera's job to see the same in him. And neither of them wanted it, and yet they both knew it was there and that there was nothing they could do. Neither of them had said a word, just thrown quips back and forth, hiding behind that façade of being guys who didn't broach these sorts of subjects with each other… but it hadn't mattered.

He wanted to reach out, then. To hell with the rule. Scotty was his friend, his buddy, practically his damn brother. It was his duty to be there, and – more than that – it was what he wanted to do. But he couldn't. Years of setting up rules and dictating the way things had to be for tough guys like him, it had left him void of any real capacity for this. He didn't know what to do. He was floundering, humiliated, and all he wanted was to force himself to look at Scotty's hands, the bruises and the blood, and to _see_ them. To see how shattered Scotty really was, and to accept that maybe Lilly had known what she was talking about (just a little), and to look him in the eye after all that and say, '_you need me, I'm here'_. But it was more than he could do to break down those walls now, and the knowledge of what he'd seen and what Scotty had seen in him, and the knowledge that neither of them would ever be able to express it, ever, broke him in half a little bit, too.

Scotty grunted, matter-of-fact, and the hand that had been slashing across Vera's field of vision slipped behind his back. "There even such a thing as a crappy donut?"

Vera smiled, etched with pain. "Sure. Y'see, they—"

"Are you _seriously_ still talking about those goddamn donuts?" Lilly snapped, moody, as she stepped out of the room.

Her eyes rested on Vera for a moment, hard and cold, but not nearly so much as they had been before she'd gone inside. He met her gaze, bitter and emotionless, but he knew that she could see the softness behind him just as easily as he could see the same now resting in her. She understood, too. Just as he did. It wasn't about them. It wasn't about who was right, or who could give more, or whose partner was broken into more pieces. It was about Scotty Valens and Kat Miller, and who in the hell were Lilly Rush and Nick Vera to say who was hurting more or who needed what? It was enough that they both cared. It had to be enough, because that was all they could do. Tomorrow, it could be Rush and Valens, Vera and Miller, and they could fight until the end of the world over who was the more dynamic duo. Tomorrow, they could sit in the office and laugh with each other and at each other and in spite of each other. But today, right now, that meant nothing. It was Valens and Miller, Rush and Vera, and those two entities just couldn't exist together, not right now. And not one of them could heal until they all understood that.

For just one fractured moment, Lilly stood by Scotty's side, fingers brushing feather-light over his bruised knuckles as they both readied themselves. She looked at him, and he looked at her, and Vera looked at the goddamn door of the goddamn hospital room he never should've left. And it was a moment that shouldn't have been, destroyed a moment later as Lilly took a step back, fingertips lingering for just a fraction of a second on his. "She needs you, Scotty," she said, and Vera felt his heart stop to hear just how deeply, at long last, she meant that. "I'll—" She stopped herself, and her eyes rested on Vera's in such a way that said they'd be resting there for as long as it took for her boy and his girl to make peace with each other. "—_We'll_… be right out here. Okay? You need us, either of us… just say 'hey'."

* * *

**TBC**


	22. Listen

_A/N: As ever, many thanks for the feedback. Sawyer, in particular, hope you're feeling better by now! Also, once more, apologies for taking a while on this one; knowing where you want to take something has the unfortunate side-effect of leaving you unable to get anything just right, and endlessly pounding on it… and it STILL ended up a billion miles away from my intended destination. Go figure. ;-)_

**22.  
Listen**

* * *

"Lookin' good, Miller."

Not that Scotty would know, of course. From the moment he entered the room, he'd trained his eyes firmly on the floor, and made a silent promise to himself never to raise them for as long as he was in there. He knew Miller well enough to know that she'd never let a moment of weakness show through in her voice, so – if he could only keep himself from actually having to _look_ at her – he could pretend that this was a social call. He could give her what she needed, without ever having to face his own demons, just as long as he had the self-discipline to keep his curiosity from getting the better of him. Just as long as he could sustain his eye-contact with the ground. Just as long as he remembered to forget where he really was.

"You bet your ass I'm lookin' good, Valens."

She sounded just like she had the very first time she'd said it. Strained and spent and suffering, but – at the very heart of all that – strong. As if she'd climbed Everest and stood there now, at the very top, wanting to close her eyes but terrified that it would all vanish if she did. Or maybe, in her case now, afraid of what would appear more than what would disappear. Either way, she spoke with the exhaustion of someone who had done what no human being was built to do, and who knew that their journey was far from over. He closed his eyes for just a moment, blotting out the floor, as the urge rose to glance up and look at her – to see if her face still glowed as it had that first time, or if it was pale and wan as it had been the last – and clenched his jaw in a desperate feint at steeling his resolve. This was going to be harder than he'd expected.

He could hear her breathing, despite his best efforts to block out everything but the words she said. Low and erratic, giving the impression that all of her energy was being spent in keeping her voice steady and there was none left to keep her breathing that way. Every now and then, it would catch, as if her body simply couldn't resist the temptation to remind her that it was still hurting. As if she needed reminding of that, he mused bitterly, and felt himself stiffen at the intrusive thought. And he wanted to say something to her, then, even if it was just '_lookin' good, Miller'_ for the hundredth time, if only it would stop her breath from catching and thereby stop him from remembering why he was there, but the words simply would not form.

_I don't want to be here_. It was the only thing he could think, the only sound – even within his own head – that could make itself heard over the laboured hitching of her breath and the occasional rhythm of footsteps from outside the door. He wanted to switch that thought off, to remind himself that he _needed_ to be here even if he didn't _want_ to, to treat the whole thing like a particularly unpleasant interview that he needed to undertake as part of his job even if it would leave him uncomfortable. But the need to be here was, right then, outweighed by the sound of her breathing and the knowledge that, if he just looked up at her for a moment, they would both shatter like glass. He wanted to stand up and do right by Kat and by himself and by everyone else he'd ever wronged, and he knew that he needed to be here if he was ever to do that… but, now, he was beginning to realise that he hadn't quite accounted for the possibility that he might not be ready for it.

As if she could sense those qualms roaring through him, she cut through the silence herself. "Not lookin' so good yourself, though," she observed, and he felt his body tense at the observation. No doubt she was looking at his tattered knuckles, and he grimaced in shame.

"Yeah, well," he muttered. "Stuff happens."

At that, she drew in a breath, and held it for a few long moments. Without looking at her, there was no way for Scotty to determine whether she was trying to keep herself calm, trying to think of something to say, or simply trying to find courage enough to exhale again… so he made no attempt to force the breath out of her. Instead, he just stood there, glaring at the floor, and waited for her to remember that breathing was a pretty unavoidable necessity.

When she finally let herself breathe out, it was in a long and drawn-out sigh. "Yeah, it does," she said; though he hadn't raised his head even a fraction, he could feel the heat of her eyes as they watched him, and suddenly he was the one holding his breath while she pursued.

He knew what was coming, before she even said anything. He knew, because he knew her. She'd done it a hundred times (or, more accurately, what had felt like a hundred times) while Fitzpatrick had been toying with them, and it now occurred to him that she'd done it a million more – long before now – without anyone ever realising it. Nobody knew anything about Kat Miller, 'cause Kat Miller never let anyone get far enough into a question for her to answer it. She'd turn them around, mid-sentence, and somehow it would all come spinning back to them… and, by the time they realised that _they_ were the ones asking the damn questions, she'd disappeared. It was how she always came out on top in her games with Vera, and how – he realised – she'd kept herself focussed against Fitzpatrick; and, with that realisation, came another. This was why she needed him, because he understood that. Because, just as she was expert in the art of turning all his questions back at him, he too was an expert in turning everyone else's problems back on himself too. He was like a ray of light and she a mirror, shaping and refracting him, distorting everything he did and said and thought in every possible direction, turning him back upon himself and forcing him to see himself while, at the same time, keeping herself from doing the same. She was a mirror, she reflected the depths of others back on themselves, but herself could never be reflected; and he was the light, forever being reflected and shaped but never able to see another's reflection.

"You do that to yourself?" she asked, plainly.

He sighed. "None o' your business, Miller."

"True," she accepted, voice cool and easy and completely belying the pain he knew she must be in. "But c'mon. I'm lyin' here, bored outta my mind. Can't eat, 'cause of the damn meds. Can't move, 'cause of the damn bullet hole. Can't even do a goddamn crossword puzzle 'cause not one of you jackasses thought to bring me one. A gal's gotta find _some_ way to keep herself entertained…"

Scotty rolled his eyes. "You want a crossword puzzle, you could've asked Vera. Didn't need to drag me all the way down here for that. An' I sure as hell ain't got as much gossip as him, either… so I ain't seein' why in the hell you wanted _me_ here instead of him right now."

And then he couldn't fight the temptation to look up and look her square in the face. Because he wanted to be the mirror, just once, to be the one who could reflect all her goddamn questions back on her, and make _her_ be the one burning herself out trying to look inside, instead of the one who writhed and crawled within his own mind while she did it to him. And because he couldn't do this, he couldn't accuse her or question her or do any of the things he knew she wanted him to do (because she couldn't just have a _conversation_, she had to make a freakin' argument out of everything), if he couldn't even look her in the eye and shoot her down that way. He'd need every weapon at his disposal if he was going to survive this, he knew, and he sure as hell wasn't about to give up his biggest arsenal just 'cause he was scared to look her in the eye.

Problem was, she looked just like he'd imagined she would. Fragile and pale and shaking and all those damn things that someone who'd been on the brink of death barely a dozen hours ago should be, and yet looking at him now with eyes that bore straight through his soul and twisted his heart and stopped him caring because (through the pallor and the trembling and the bodily weakness) in the depths of those eyes was the Kat Miller who could kick his ass even with one leg out of commission. And she was going to win this, she was going to win because she _always_ won, because she'd built her entire life upon winning everything just as he'd built his around making mistakes and letting other people suffer for them… and, even then, before she'd even opened her mouth to respond, he felt his resolve waning, and knew he'd never had a chance. So he looked at her, took in everything that she was – the weak, the strong, the broken, the victorious – and he fixed her with a look so intense he felt it would shatter him entirely, drew in as much strength as he could, and repeated the question as plainly and simply as he could, in the futile hope that, for once in her life, she'd answer it.

"Cut the BS, Miller." He sounded desperate, and they both knew it. "Drop the whining about crossword puzzles, an' get to the point. Why'd you drag me here?"

For a long moment, so long that Scotty found himself wondering if time had stopped still, they simply stared at each other. He seeing in her everything that was within her, and she seeing everything within him. For just that one timeless moment, they were on even footing, together and the same. And, though he wanted his answers and he wanted her to quit screwing with his head, part of him wanted that moment to truly last forever. It was the closest he'd felt to peace since this whole nightmare had begun. Closer even than he'd felt while lying in Lilly's arms and feeling the depth of her compassion and the weight being lifted of him as she'd taken his guilt and his burdens away. And he knew it couldn't last, because this sort of thing never did, but even so he wasn't prepared to see it fracture and tear as Kat finally gave her answer.

"Because…" She let the word hang, solitary and suspended on the air, just long enough to make him believe it was all he was ever going to get out of her. And maybe, he mused, so she could brace herself. She would never let him be the mirror, he knew, and he would never be able to fill that role anyway; but maybe (just maybe) she was happy to let him believe that he was, just this once. "Because," she went on in a pained whimper, "you make me feel safe."

Of all the possible answers he'd been expecting, that one hadn't even been on the radar. Hell, if he was being totally honest, he hadn't expected an answer at all. Getting her to look inside herself and think about her reasons for doing anything was difficult enough, but getting her to pull out those reasons and speak them aloud? That, he'd always believed, was practically impossible. But here she was, telling him the one thing he could never have anticipated hearing, and he felt his soul lift ever so slightly from the oblivion it had sunk into. Not quite high enough, of course, to keep him from realising the irony in what she was saying; even as it lifted, he felt the dim light in his soul flicker ever so slightly as he considered the words she was saying. He made her feel safe? Yeah, right. If not for him, she wouldn't even be here, and they both knew it. Lilly could throw out all her insistences about her shooting at the hands of Ed Marteson, but this was an entirely different circumstance, and surely Kat Miller knew that. She must've known that, because she was the one lying here this time, and she knew all too well _why_ she was lying here. And he realised, as the memories of both incidents battled for dominance in his subconscious, that she was playing him again. Letting him believe he'd got her to open up her soul to him, when really she was just pushing him (again!) to look within himself and acknowledge the guilt and the blame that still lay within him. She didn't feel safe with him, there was no way in hell she could feel safe with him; she just saw the words as a means to an end, a method by which she could drive him deep within himself, reflect him back upon his own insecurities, and realise the paradox behind the words. Despite himself, despite the softening of his heart in the instant that she'd uttered them, he felt a flash of anger rise within him once again.

"That ain't funny, Miller," he said darkly, eyes darting back to the door for a brief moment, to ensure it was closed; the last thing either of them needed was for Lil or Nick to overhear what promised to evolve into an unpleasant conversation, and offer up their own destructive brand of intervention. "You know damn well I'm the reason you're lyin' here. You wanna make some kinda point 'bout that, go right ahead, but I ain't gonna sit here playin' mind-games while you try'n figure out the easiest way to lay the blame." He stepped forward, lowering himself just a little to meet her gaze, a glare she countered unwavering. "Just say what you gotta say. Don't go throwin' out crap 'bout feelin' safe, when we both know it's BS."

Her eyes hardened at that, angry and bright; in a strange sort of way, there was some kind of solace in seeing that reaction in her, a glimpse of the woman she'd been before all this, and the woman she'd be again when it was all over. A reminder, however fleeting, that the damage he'd done wasn't entirely irreparable. "Not talkin' crap, Scotty," she said quietly, but with a rigidity in her voice that implied he better not cross her. "But you don't get it. You don't get that maybe you're the reason I'm lyin' here and not six feet under. You don't get that maybe you're the reason Lil ain't six feet under, too." Her breath caught for a moment, and he found himself resisting the temptation to lean over to suggest that she take it easy and wait for her lungs to catch up with the rest of her. The mood she was in, compassion was the last thing she'd want.

"You're right," he said, instead, allowing himself to rise to the bait she was throwing out. "I _don't_ get it. 'Cause it's BS. You an' Lil, you throw out all this crap about me savin' you, but it don't matter. Fitzpatrick did what he did to you 'cause of me. Ain't no other reason. He wanted to get back at me for throwin' his old man in prison, an' he did it by takin' pieces outta you." His voice slipped for a moment there, and he silently cursed himself, fighting for the will to keep going, though he knew she'd contradict him again. "You wanna pretend that havin' me there was some kinda safety net or whatever, go ahead. But it ain't gonna change the fact that you wouldn't have _been_ there if it weren't for me. Ain't ever gonna change that."

"No," she agreed, sounding bone-weary. "Not gonna change that. But hell, Scotty, you know how the game works. If it wasn't you, it would've been someone else."

He laughed at that, bitter and brittle. "Yeah," he said. "Right. But it weren't someone else, was it? It was me." He felt hot tears pricking behind his eyes, but refused to let them fall. Not in front of her. Lilly could see him cry; she'd earned that right, time and time again. Miller was different. She wouldn't let him see her cry; hell, she wouldn't even let him see her weakness, had needed to use Fitzpatrick as a bumper for those emotions… and he sure as hell wasn't about to let himself break in front of her. If she wanted it, she'd have to give it up first, and he knew her too well to expect that she'd ever do that. Which was fine so far as he was concerned; she could keep her damn weakness, so long as she allowed him to keep his too.

"Yeah, it was you," she replied. "That supposed to mean something? You the chosen one or somethin', Valens? Stuff happens. It happens. It…" She trailed off, and he wondered if she was having second thoughts about picking this particular battle with him. But, of course, that was too much to ask for. A strained lungful of air, a tight-lipped whimper, and she was back in action as if the pause had never happened. "Nothin' special 'bout getting hurt," she went on. "Gettin' over it, that takes the work."

"Sure," he muttered. "Y'know what? I'm sick of gettin' over it. I'm sick of _havin'_ to get over it. It weren't ever gonna be someone else, Miller. It's always gonna be me. It's _always _me. Everywhere I go, people get hurt. You know what that's like? Seein' people I care about in hospital beds 'cause of me? Seein' people with bullets in 'em just 'cause they happened to be in the wrong place when I screwed up? Sittin' back and doin' nothin' while the people I love are dyin'?" Her eyes softened, ever so slightly, and it fuelled him. "You ain't got a clue what it's like. So cut the crap. I'm sick of it. It ain't me that makes you feel safe. It's you. It's you, sittin' here, even now, and thinkin' you're okay… you're fine, 'cause I've got it worse than you. It ain't _me_ that makes you feel safe. It's believin' that there's some loser out there that _you_ can try'n save."

She shook her head, carefully, and leaned forward. The movement seemed to take all her strength, and he found himself reflexively reaching out to steady her. It was a gesture he knew he'd regret the instant he felt his body shifting, but there was nothing he could do to stop it as she caught his arms and pulled him in close. And it shattered him to feel her, to close himself around her in an embrace he'd sworn he'd never surrender to, against his own will, and to feel her tremble in his arms like a frightened child. Her heartbeat pulsed against his collarbone, arrhythmic and scattered, and he felt his own heart melt a little as she buried her face in his neck. "It's _you_," she whispered against his skin. "If I wanna save you, it's only 'cause I wanna return the favour." And he could feel her tense, struggling to find strength enough to keep pushing, to keep throwing the painful truth at the one man who didn't want to hear it. "You saved me. I know you don't wanna believe it's true, but it is. You kept me alive. You gave me something to fight for, when I had nothin'…"

"You had your little girl," he reminded her, refusing to believe the words she spoke with such conviction. "Like the bastard said. Ain't she what kept you goin'?"

That was enough to undo her, and he could've sworn he actually felt her shatter as he said it. He tried to pull out of the embrace, to hold her at arms' length and see her, but she wouldn't let him… and, as her fingers dug painfully into his back, and her face pressed uncomfortably tight against his neck, he knew what she was doing. She could no more hide the gasping sobs that now fought their way from her, than she could deny the dampness that now seeped into the skin on his neck. And he knew he'd broken her, like porcelain, in a single statement, and all he wanted was to finally be allowed to _see_ the tears, to witness them in her so that he could let her see the same in him. But, even now, she denied him that. Even now, having bared herself to him, she wouldn't let him see her cry. It was enough, for her, that he knew she was crying, and that she knew he knew it, but to let him see the tears was more release than she could allow herself. So he gave up, allowed her the privacy of his unwitting hold, and let her shed her tears in peace and silence against his neck; and, despite himself, despite his refusal to break until he'd physically seen the same in her, he felt the salt stinging his own eyes and softly allowed them to fall now, unobserved and unseen by anyone. If nobody could see them, he knew, they didn't exist. Those tears, hers and his and theirs, without any witness, would be their tragic little secret.

Eventually, much to Scotty's relief, Kat pulled back from the death-grip she'd had on him. He hadn't realised quite how hard she'd been holding on to him until she released him and he felt his lungs expanding to draw in a much-needed breath. Predictably, she kept her head down, even as she slumped back against the pillows, so he couldn't even see the tracks of pain that no doubt still stained her face; Scotty found himself surprisingly quite grateful for this, as her evasive state left her similarly unable to look up and see the same evidence of sorrow that still touched his own. Once again, in spite of the movement, they were still on even footing, and he exhaled cautiously before stepping back from the bed and waiting for her to launch into an explanation of exactly why his innocuous statement had been enough to break her; he wouldn't push, this time. He was done playing this her way. She'd talk, or he'd stand there in silence until the end of time.

Rather thankfully (for both of their sakes) she chose the former option, loosing a frustrated breath before accepting his unspoken challenge. "Should've been," she murmured quietly, in a voice that clearly said she was cursing herself for every moment's thought she needed to spend on this particular subject; for the first time since Lilly and her team had rescued them, Scotty found himself wondering if maybe he wasn't the only one who'd let himself be manipulated by Fitzpatrick. "Should've been enough to love her, to wanna be there for her, right?" The question was rhetorical, so he made no effort to reply. "But it wasn't. Not even close. When… when he had me wantin' to die… it wasn't in spite of her, Scotty." Her voice dropped to lower than a whisper, and he had to fight every temptation to lean inwards to better hear her. "It was _because_ of her."

He blinked, then, admittedly stunned by that revelation. The guilt, that permanent fixture of who he was, still simmered underneath the surface, waiting for its moment to leap up and devour him again, but right at that moment the shock had overpowered it to an extent he'd formerly believed to be impossible. He'd been there, he'd seen her at her very worst, saw her face drain of all its natural colour at the thought of her daughter being left alone in a world so much bigger than she was, and had known that it was because of him. They'd both known it, however hard she'd fought to keep him from jumping off that ledge, and he'd seen her so close to breaking at that moment… but she hadn't. She hadn't, even as he himself had, and he'd always assumed that it had been the resolve to remain by her child's side that had kept her brave. Veronica had saved her, surely. In spite of Scotty Valens and his constant screw-ups, that had been something that Fitzpatrick couldn't touch; it was the way it had been, he'd seen it with his own eyes. He'd been the reason she'd had to even consider the possibility of her daughter being orphaned; but the girl had kept her from giving in to that possibility. That was how it had been. He knew it. Why was she telling him now that it wasn't? What good would it do her?

"I couldn't…" she went on, and he found himself facing her now with an intensity that he'd not felt since entering the room. "The thought of seeing her… of her seein' _me_. I couldn't. I wanted… I…" Her jaw was clenching so tight that he could see the muscles working, and he wanted to help her get the words out, but his own throat was so dry he couldn't push out a single syllable either, and remained helplessly waiting on her to bring herself to confess what was eating her alive. "I wanted to die, 'cause… 'cause I couldn't let her see me like that… like _this_." And the agony in her voice spilled over to flood like saltwater through the open wound on his soul, and it was all he could do to keep breathing through the heartbreak, for both of them. "Not again… not after I _promised_ her it'd never happen again."

He felt a sad smile touch his lips at that, his mind swimming with the recollection of the conversation he'd had with her, before the nightmare had started. "Guess I ain't the only one who's got issues keepin' their promises, huh?" he said, as gently as he could, with honesty.

She nodded, slowly, but in acute agreement. "Wasn't you who screwed up," she said. "It was me. And y'know what kept me goin'?" All he could do, though he knew the question wasn't rhetorical, was blink and frown and strive to keep himself from losing it. "I didn't want _you_ to be the one facin' her. Didn't want you to be standin' there, telling my baby girl that I screwed up." She looked him right in the face, then, eyes dry and gleaming with resolve, and he felt himself leaning forwards ever so slightly to meet it. "Wasn't your cross to bear, and you'd suffered enough. And you… you were so damn sure it was all your fault, and I was so damn—" She cut herself off, and her eyes darted downwards for a moment, fixating on the blanket even as he kept his right where they were, waiting. Her shoulders heaved with exertion, and he again found himself overwhelmed with the urge to beg her to slow down and give her body a moment, but they both knew such a plea would fall on deaf ears, and the mere thought of it seemed enough to spur her on once more. "—so damn _scared_."

His heart almost stopped beating entirely, then. Never, in all the time he'd worked with her, even through everything that Fitzpatrick had put them both through, he'd never heard her confess to that particular emotion. It had been easier for her, he knew, to confess that she'd genuinely been praying for her own death, than to admit that she'd simply been too frightened to stay alive. That the thought of facing a small child had struck such gut-wrenching fear into her very essence, mingling so deeply with the pain, that she would've chosen death as the least horrific choice.

Scotty Valens knew all about what inspired a person to seek out death. He'd seen it in Elisa, every goddamn day. He had seen the pain, the fear, the tragedy, every goddamn day, in her eyes. And he'd known there was nothing in the world he could do to keep her on the right side of those emotions. It had killed him to see it killing her, and he would've thrown himself from the top of Mount Everest if he'd thought for a single moment it would take all those feelings away. But it wouldn't have helped, and he'd known that, and that alone had been what had separated him from her. She hadn't known, or maybe she just hadn't wanted to. And he'd wanted to teach her otherwise, had wanted to be the one who always pulled her back from the edge and kept her fighting and had shown her just why Life was so worth living. But he hadn't been enough. He'd tried so damn hard to be everything, in the end he hadn't been _anything_. And, in those horrible dark days, he'd known how she'd felt because he'd felt it too. Nothing had mattered. Without her, knowing he hadn't been there when she'd needed him, having to spend every day for the rest of his life without ever seeing her again? What in the hell kind of life was that? The unfairness, the brutality, it had almost slain him then and there. Yeah, Scotty Valens knew all about what inspired a person to seek out death, and to hear Kat Miller – the one person who was tougher than all that – talking of it in such plain terms, bringing all those memories back and _still_ telling him it wasn't his fault… it was almost more than he could bear, and it took every ounce of self-control he had not to turn and walk the hell out of the room right then without ever looking back.

Kat, for her part, was still talking. As someone who was fighting the after-effects of several hours' pain and blood loss, boy did that girl have a big mouth. "Anyone else, it wouldn't have been enough. Lil, Will, even Vera… wouldn't have been enough. But you… I couldn't do that to you. Not after what happened to Lil. Not after…" Again, she trailed off, and he wondered briefly whether the subject of Elisa had ever come up in one of her random gossip sessions with her fellow cops, whether she even knew about it, or whether she'd read that depth of loss within him in that eerie way she had of reading the souls of people without even trying. "Not after everything this goddamn world has put you through," she finished, a little lamely, and met his eyes once again with a blazing intensity. "Not talkin' crap when I say you saved me, Scotty. Ain't nobody else who could've kept me goin' like you did. And you're right, 'cause it _is_ all about you. But you saved my damn life, you bastard. You expect me to let that slide?"

Something about the way she phrased the question caused him to start laughing, and – once he'd started – he couldn't stop. He couldn't quite believe her, not just yet, but hearing her speak the words with such conviction, and speaking them as if they were an accusation – as if he were Vera and her life was a donut – it was almost enough to make him cast aside all his self-inflicted doubts and invest himself into her particular belief system. But not yet. Not just yet. For now, whether he would ultimately believe what she said or not, for now she'd given him the gift of laughter and irony and all those things he'd truly thought he would never again find himself able to appreciate. And for now, whether her words were true or not (and he would deal with that soon enough), he would take that laughter she'd so graciously given him – at that point, a greater gift even than the life she so avidly claimed he'd given her – and embrace it like he had never embraced any emotion before.

"Nah," he managed to get out, eventually, through tears of an entirely different kind. "You're the kinda gal who don't let anythin' slide, least of all someone keepin' your sorry ass on the planet a bit longer." And he allowed himself to pause there, if only briefly, to bask once again in the simple beauty of the moment. The lightness wouldn't last, and he had no doubt that it would turn dark almost before he could fully recover from the laughter, so he used every last ounce of strength and courage he had to hold onto that good cheer while he had it, and revel in the fact that it had existed at all. "You wanna kick my ass for keepin' you alive? Go ahead. But I swear to God, Miller… you start askin' me to appease you with donuts, I'm gettin' you some goddamn therapy."

* * *

**TBC**


	23. There's A Way

_A/N: As ever, countless thanks for all the feedback. And, once again, sorry that this one took an obscenely long time to get done… it was difficult to write at the best of times, and Real Life habitually started jumping on my head every time I finally got around to writing something down._

**23.  
There's A Way**

* * *

It was odd, Kat mused as she watched the light slowly but surely begin to flicker once again behind Scotty's eyes, how a man so vibrant and full of life could so easily find himself drowning in despair for the sake of something he hadn't even done. Odder still, now seeing him burst to life again and knowing where all that pain had come from, knowing far better than him that there was nothing he could have done to make things different, as many times as he would convince himself that wasn't true.

He didn't understand, and maybe he never would, the subtle difference between _causing_ something to happen, and _being_ the cause of it. But then, understanding subtleties had never been Scotty's strong point; he was the kind to strike first and think later, in much the same way as Vera was, though more often with his fists than his mouth. It would've been pretty simple for Kat to just assume that it was a 'guy' thing, but (deep inside, where her feminist pride would never find it) she knew better than to believe that. It was easier – kinder, maybe – to blame those personality clashes on gender differences or racial prejudice or any one of a million things that allowed the red flag of '_they_ do this and _we_ do that' to go up… but she knew all too well from her own mistakes that it seldom helped anyone to generalise those fundamental human idiosyncrasies, or to shove them into the cramped pigeon-holes of social grouping. It was a lesson she had learned a thousand times, and one that her colleagues (and Will Jeffries in particular) took great pains to remind her of.

And it didn't really matter, anyway. Scotty would never understand those subtleties because he'd never allow himself to understand them. It was easier for him to blame himself, just as it was easier for her to look at him now and see his pain and his trauma and his suffering, and use it as a means of avoiding her own. They all had their own strange defence mechanisms, and she couldn't help but wonder whether his was really any worse than her own. At least he was holding himself accountable for his mistakes (even if they weren't truly _his_ mistakes), which was a hell of a lot more than she'd ever done. But then, his mechanism was just a parallel of hers, taken to the other extreme. For her, it was all about looking everywhere but at herself, saying anything to anyone just to keep them from saying anything to her. For him, it was the opposite; focussing only on himself to the exclusion of everything around him, seeing only his own fault and nothing of anybody else's. Hell, looking at it that way, she couldn't help thinking it was a damn miracle either of them had made it out alive.

She looked at him now, seeing the dim light behind his eyes for the first time in almost as long as her medicated brain could remember (though, realistically, she was having a hard time remembering anything prior to the projectile Jell-O incident that had sent Vera running from the room like a little girl), and despite herself – despite knowing that she was once again shrouding her own issues in his – she couldn't help smiling. Really, truly smiling. Warm and filled with emotions she'd almost begun to think she'd never feel again. And she knew the hardest part was still to come, the part where she'd have to face her daughter, but right at that moment all she could really focus on was the hope that swelled within her at the sight of Scotty.

"No donuts," she said lightly, taking his cue with a smirk. "I'm sick of donuts… and Jell-O. You can appease me with bottled water. Think you can manage that?"

He leaned back, crossing his arms; she caught (as hard as he tried to hide it) the flash of pain that shot through his eyes as his bruised knuckles brushes against his arms, and felt a frown touch her face for just a moment. "No way," he threw back, eventually, his tone matching hers in a sharp contrast to his former hopelessness. "You're gonna have to get your lazy ass outta that bed sometime," he went on, with a teasing smile. "Ain't gonna have saps like us runnin' your damn errands forever, y'know."

Rolling her eyes, Kat let herself lie all the way back down. "Sure," she retorted. "Girl takes a bullet, and suddenly she's a lazy good-for-nothin'. That it?" Under normal circumstances, she would've leaped on the opportunity to throw out a well-timed guilt trip; she wasn't particularly thirsty, but there was something empowering about being able to get one of the big guys on the team to drop everything and rush off to fetch something for her. And, if it had been Vera or Lilly, yeah, she would've pulled one hell of a guilt trip. But not with Scotty. Not now. She'd got to him, she knew, with her confession (even if he'd refuse to admit it), but even so it would only take the slightest feather-light touch to push him back over that edge again. Kat Miller was all about using humour to cover up just about anything, but even she knew the risks she would be running in pursuing that particular line of comedy, and it was a risk she sure as hell wasn't willing to take, not with him.

"Nah," he replied, evenly. "You were a lazy good-for-nothin' way before you got shot." She laughed at that, drinking in the genuine humour behind his dark eyes.

The moment passed; beautiful as it had been, like all things, it had to. The brightness in Scotty's face couldn't last, and nor could the blissful reprieve that her aching body had granted her for those precious moments. His pain had been forgotten, and so too had hers, and that in itself was a miracle even if it had only lasted a second or two. The fact that it _could_ happen, that meant so much more than anything else she could imagine. Didn't matter how long for. If she knew it was possible to draw in breath or shift her body or speak without wanting to scream in pain, that surely meant that one day it would happen, and it would be permanent. Didn't matter that it was all flooding back to her now, reminding her in dazzling neon why she'd been willing to put up with the brutality of the meds, because she had tasted the feeling of being free from it.

He must've seen the shift in her, because he was leaning over her again now, his own face pale and stricken with worry and guilt. "You okay?" he asked, frightened, and she felt her heart constrict at the sound. He wasn't going to fall back down, not now. She wouldn't let him.

"Fine," she answered, voice tight and unconvincing. Her body was trying to insist that she ask for more meds, but she was done with that. She was done hiding behind drugs that made her feel like crap and only ever took the most corrugated edge off the hurt. And, she realised as she caught the mistrust on Scotty's face while he studied her, she was done pretending. Yeah, okay, so she was in pain. So what? She'd taken a bullet, lost more blood than any good person had the right to do, over the course of more hours than anyone should have to live through, and all the way unflinchingly taking threats of further suffering from a guy she'd never even met before. She'd earned the right to be in pain, and so too had Scotty… and, the quicker they both realised that and embraced the knowledge that it wasn't forever, the better it would be for both of them.

"Really?" he demanded, voice heavy with doubt.

"No," she admitted, and watched his eyebrows go up. "Not really." And, in spite of the confession – or maybe, just a little, because of it – she smiled. "Hurts like hell." A soft and tragic sigh left Scotty's lips, and he averted his gaze to keep from seeing that pain in her, but she didn't let up. "Hurts so bad I can't see straight." And she was watching him intently now, her eyes resting hypnotically on his tattered knuckles and the bruises and the dried blood that painted his own suffering so clearly across him that she really didn't understand why he was even trying to deny it; she smiled, sadly but with acceptance, and leaned forward ever so slightly to reach for his arm. Forced him to look at her, to see that pain flicker like an old TV picture across her face, sharp and distorted and so deep they could both drown in it if they looked into it for too long. And, when she was sure he'd absorbed all that from her, that he was willing to see the pain within her, acknowledge it as part of who she was and where she was right now, and accept it without turning away, she let her fingers drop down his forearm and rest on his knuckles, feeling the roughness of the skin, and hearing him inhale sharply at the contact. She had him. She had him, and they both knew it, so she went in unfaltering for the kill. "How 'bout you?"

The question caught him off-guard, that much was obvious. His fingers twitched, and he wrenched his hand away from her as though her touch had burned it. His eyes bore into hers, filled with anger and sadness in equal measure, and she met the expression with one of confidence and compassion. He wasn't gonna get out of answering; this was what she did best, and they both knew it. It didn't require an epiphany on his part, didn't even require a breakdown; all it required was that he acknowledge his own suffering. Not the guilt, not the sorrow. Lilly, she was sure, would have dealt with that… and (she hoped) maybe her own confession would've offered a little relief too. No, she was going deeper than that, to the heart of it. Scotty Valens wasn't the kind of guy who could blame himself and leave it at that; the bruises on his hands were evidence enough of that. He was the kind of guy who, if left unchecked, would drag himself through every possible negative emotion available to him, who wouldn't settle for hating himself without also feeling the pain of those he imagined he'd let down. He had to have everything – the guilt, the pain, the grief – and he needed it all as loudly as possible.

In a way, she could understand that; the need to feel was, after all, a fundamental part of being human… and Scotty Valens was nothing if not fundamentally human. Problem was, he didn't see that. He didn't see the normalcy, the humanity in his thoughts and feelings, and couldn't understand that _feeling_ responsible wasn't the same as _being_ responsible. She could understand that, too, and (in an odd sort of way) felt just a little gratitude for his being such a confused little jackass. Just as he always functioned best when his thoughts and emotions were focussed self-destructively inwards, she always functioned best when she could direct her own discomfort onto someone else. It was just another way in which he'd saved her, really, albeit one she was rather less willing to voice aloud. He was smart, she figured, he'd work it out eventually.

He averted his eyes, now, with the expression of a guy who'd genuinely believed that the focus had been taken off him for good and who hated the fact that it hadn't; he should've known better than to assume that from her, and she had no intention of backing down now, however long he remained in stubborn silence. She'd given up all of her secrets to him (or, most of them, at least); now it was his turn, and Kat Miller sure as hell wasn't gonna take 'no' for answer. He wanted to look away, that was fine by her. She kept her eyes fixed on him; wherever the hell he turned his attention, he'd know she was watching him, and he'd know – as surely as he must now realise the honesty with which she'd told him he'd saved her – he wasn't getting out of this. He'd run hard enough and far enough now, there was nowhere left for him to go except straight into the jaws of his own heartbreak and, dammit, she was gonna be there and face that right by his side. He'd kept her sane, kept her alive; his situation was different, and she knew she'd never be able to offer the exact same in return (at least, for both their sakes, she _hoped_ she'd never have to do that)… but she was sure as hell gonna take his hand and offer up what empathy she could. He didn't have to hide from his pain, and he didn't have to face it alone.

"C'mon, Valens," she said softly; his eyes remained fixed on some distant point far away from her, but she made no attempt to drag them back towards her. He'd do that in his own time, she was certain. All she needed to do was get him there. "I showed you mine." She smiled, a smile that – while it lacked some of the lustre in their previous brief dalliance with humour – was nonetheless as warm and genuine as she could make it. He deserved that, and she wouldn't disappoint. "You gotta show me yours."

"Jesus," he grumbled, and (just as she'd known they would) his eyes finally returned to meet hers; the hint of mild irritation in his voice, good-natured and ironic, strengthened her resolve. "You don't quit, do ya?" He rolled his eyes as she shook her head, and let out an impatient breath. "Fine. You win." And he leaned in once again, his face mere inches from hers as he looked so deeply into her eyes that she could almost believe she'd see the whole galaxy reflected in his pupils, the stars and planets colliding with the power and the passion and all those myriad emotions he'd fought for so long. "It hurts. Okay? It _hurts_."

There was anger in his voice, and defeat, and surrender, and… solace. Yeah. She could hear it in him, as clear as a melody in glass. The words were out, and nothing in the world could take them back, and maybe a small part of him still wished he'd never had to say them, to admit to them, to accept that they were true; but she knew, and she knew that he knew too, that (as the old cliché so insistently said) admission was the first step to recovery, and there was no chance in hell that Scotty Valens would ever allow himself to recover if he never allowed himself to admit. Even now, she could see he was tearing himself in half with conflict over those two simple words that she'd forced from his lips – the part of him that was comforted by finally having uttered them aloud, and the part of him that was so damn used to burying them so deeply within himself that nobody but himself would ever be allowed to conceive of their existence – but, behind all that conflict, there was nothing he could do or say to cover up the exhausted relief that now shrouded his eyes like a cool balm.

"Yeah, it does," she agreed. "It's killin' you, right?"

"Killin' me," he repeated, almost wistfully. "Yeah."

She struggled, then, against the temptation to reach out and hold him. Touch was her solace, not his. Physicality, contact, the warmth and solidity of another human body as close to her as possible, it was hers. She'd always been that way, she realised; hell, her own daughter was just the unfortunate side-effect of that weakest part of her. She was better than that now – no longer a girl with self-esteem issues, who'd risk everything just for the sake of being held and touched and _loved_, for one worthless night – but the innate desire to be there, to have someone be there too, to share in the emotional through the physical, that would always be a part of her. It would always be in her, the need to be comforted (in the rare moments she allowed herself to be comforted at all) through physicality. Even something so small as a hug, or a hand in hers, or a feather-light trail of fingertips through her hair… it brought her to life, more than words, more than anything else in the world. Made her feel safe and loved. But this, right here, was about Scotty, and she had to remember that.

For him, touch had an entirely different meaning. For him, it was about exertion, force, motion. That was why his knuckles were raw, it was why he'd attacked Fitzpatrick the first chance he'd had. In a twisted way, it was solace for him too, but of a different kind. For him, touch and violence went almost hand-in-hand. She couldn't imagine him being gentle, even with a lover, because his psyche was so steeped in violence and rage and the bitter assumption that punching your problems in the face was the only real way of dealing with them. And she sort of wanted to smile at him and say that, if it would make him feel any better about himself, he could wash away his pain with his fists right then. Hit her, hit the wall, hit the floor, hit the incessantly beeping medical equipment. Hit any damn thing he wanted. But his hands told her he'd already tried that approach, and had taken what healing he could from it. She studied those hands, again, the bruising and the dried blood and the shredded skin, and felt the heat of his gaze as it hardened with the realisation that she was once again focussing on _that_, and she couldn't help wondering, if they caused him such pain and such shame, what had been the point in him beating himself to a pulp in the first place. It was the lifeblood of who he was, she knew, but the question remained teasing the back of her mind like a riddle that couldn't be solved, of _why_ it meant so much to him.

"Why?" she asked aloud, barely even aware of the word escaping her lips until it was too late and she realised he was frowning at her. "Why'd you do it to yourself?"

And she wasn't just talking about his hands; she hadn't even realised it before she'd finished speaking, but she was talking about everything. Blaming himself, hating himself, hurting himself… every last fragment of punishment he'd seen fit to take upon himself and against himself. Because they were all connected. He'd beaten himself up on the outside because he'd already beaten himself up on the inside. He thrived on his own torment – the guilt, the rage, the pain. Yeah, the pain. Just as she'd worked her ass off to deny that hers had ever existed, through every last searing screaming pulse so intense it almost killed her, he thrived on his, seeking out more and more until it would overwhelm him entirely. Lilly had to know that, surely, and yet she'd been the one to let him do that to himself, to complete his cycle of self-destruction and self-loathing, as if it would help him. As if it would do anything but express in the rawest physical form the darkness inside him.

"Just made sense," he replied, evasively, and she raised a cynical eyebrow at him. She didn't say anything, because she didn't need to; he knew, as she did, that she'd bared herself to him, and it was unspoken yet plain that she expected the same of him. Even though he hadn't asked her to say any of the things she had, even though she'd said them for her own benefit as much as his. She'd done it, and he only needed to glance at her for a moment to see how much peace it had given her. But it wasn't enough; there was only so much peace she could make, while he was still unwilling to offer up the same. They were in this together, as they had been from the beginning… and, if she was gonna give up all she had, then he sure as hell needed to do the same. It was all or nothing, for both of them, and she'd brought them both too far now for it to be anything other than 'all'. She'd trapped him, really, and she could only lay there and hope that he wouldn't realise that until after he'd done what he needed to do. It was out of his battered hands, now. She was the one lying bed-ridden, but he was on her territory now, and she wasn't the kind of girl who'd lose on her own home ground.

He was scowling, well aware of the fact that she wanted more than an evasive off-hand comment from him, but she kept that eyebrow raised, and he sighed in defeat. She waited until he started speaking again, before allowing the eyebrow to drop back down, the cynicism replaced by self-satisfaction. Damn, she was good. "I hate you," he said, matter-of-factly, and she grinned obnoxiously wide.

"No you don't," she retorted. "Spill, Valens."

He drew in a breath, held it for a few long moments, and let it out again. "It's easier," he said. "When it ain't… when it ain't all inside. It's easier, when it's here." He raised one bloodied hand, and she could no longer fight the urge to seek out that physical contact, instead surrendering to grip it loosely in her own and absorb the warmth and the humanity underneath the roughness. "When you can see it." His fingers tightened, clenching into a fist around her fingers, and his entire body tensed. "You got it easy, Miller." The admission seemed to run through him like a crack, as if he expected her to deny the fact, but they both knew he was right. "You got the pain everyone can see. It's easy. Yank the bullet out, slap on a band-aid, good as new." She laughed a little bitterly at that, but didn't say anything. This was his moment; he could say whatever the hell he wanted, and she'd believe it without question. "Ain't so easy when it's eatin' at you inside, deep down where no-one can see it. Can't put a band-aid on that, right?"

Maybe he had a point there. Maybe. She turned his hand over, so his palm would've been facing upwards if it wasn't balled into a fist, and placed her other hand over it. Wanted to tell him that there were other ways of fixing emotional pain, that he didn't need to resort to what he did, but she knew it wouldn't help. He'd done what he had to do, just as she had. She'd taken the physical and made it emotional, survived her own pain by focussing on his heartbreak; he'd taken the emotional and made it physical, taken his own trauma and shaped it into something tangible and fixable. Neither of them were particularly healthy options, but they'd both learned long ago that any means of survival was a good one. If they could look back on this, one day, and remember that they'd endured… it would be worth all the chaos they were working through now. It would be worth seeing him destroy himself for a moment, if it would cause him to heal over time. And it was worth her feeling the pain that still coursed through her, blinding her, if it meant that she would wake one morning without it.

She sighed, flexing the fingers of both her hands rhythmically against the one of his, hearing his breath pulse with pain. Physical pain. The kind of pain he wanted, the kind of pain she already had. "So you go for somethin' you can?" she asked softly, her thumbs tickling along the edge of the bruises. "Slap on a band-aid, good as new. Right? You tellin' me that's gonna make everything better?"

"Ain't sayin' that," he said. "But it's a start."

It was such a simple statement, and yet it stole her breath and shattered her illusions and gave her hope all at the same time. Her head spun, and she gulped down a lungful of sterile air. That was all either of them could hope for, wasn't it? A start. Something to cling to, a single point from which to set off in the direction of healing. She'd brought him here so they could save each other, so she could break down and let him see her weakness, so he could do the same in return, so they could achieve that beautiful moment of clarity and release and acceptance. And she'd tell him about Veronica, about how she'd still not found the courage within herself to face her own damn daughter and confess to her screw-ups; and he'd tell her about Fitzpatrick, about how he would one day have to face down the bastard and look him in the eye and how he was so damn terrified of that day that he couldn't even breathe. And they'd help each other, and give each other strength, and heal each other. But it didn't work that way. Her issues, with her daughter and her honesty and her screw-ups, they were _hers_; and his issues, with Fitzpatrick and his brother and himself, they were _his_. And all they could offer each other, she and he, was a start. The start that came with talking through their own emotional and physical vulnerabilities, and what kept them strong and what made them weak, and why they did what they did… but that was all it was. Just a start. Just that first step, for each of them, on a journey they'd have to take separately, for both their sakes.

She was still holding his hand, almost unconsciously, and she realised that she didn't want to let it go. In every sense of the word, both physical and metaphorical, she wanted to keep holding his and, and for him to keep holding hers. He'd saved her, she'd confessed as much to him and she'd done so from the very depths of her soul. He'd saved her, and that confession had maybe saved him a little too. At least, she hoped it had. But she knew, having made that confession, having crossed that bridge, she would have to let him go. He'd kept her alive when she'd been dying, but now she needed to do that on her own. She'd need to stand on her own two feet, to save herself from now on, to find her own salvation within herself… because she had to give back what he'd given to her. He needed it more, that reassurance, that knowledge that his self-inflicted suffering had saved her life. He needed to take it, to put it inside him, and to use it as a band-aid for his soul, the kind of band-aid that he insisted couldn't exist. He thought he'd needed something he could see, something he could wrap up in cotton-wool and plaster and bleed out the hurt until it just stopped for good. But he didn't need that. Not now. And that was how she could save him, she realised. She'd clung to that missing piece of him, that guilt and rage and all those things that had been tearing him apart because they'd given her something other than herself to focus on. But it was her turn to look inside now, and his turn to look beyond himself and see the good he'd done. She could save him, and she would.

"You're wrong," she whispered, and he frowned. "All the hurt inside you? The kind you can't see?" Finally, she let go his hand, her fingertips drifting for just a single fractured moment to rest on his heart. Feeling the rhythmic beat of his pulse, and allowing her mind to settle into that same rhythm. Letting her pulse beat in time with his for just as long as it took. "You can put a band-aid on it." She wasn't looking at him now, but she could feel the puzzlement run through him like water; she wanted to raise her head and fix him with eyes that were both resolved and reassuring, but the slightest movement would shatter the unity of their broken heartbeats, and she could not do that just yet. "You saved my life, Valens. Doesn't matter why we were there. It's done. Only thing that matters is, if it weren't you an' me, if it weren't _us_… it wouldn't have gone down like this. We'd both be dead." She felt him surrender to that, could feel his pulse slow, relax, even out until it was so slow she could've sworn he was asleep. And that was enough to send her over the edge, too; she leaned back, _back_, shattering that soul-deep connection between them, and felt her eyes slide closed. She could've blamed the pain for that, a sudden overwhelming exhaustion, but it would've been a lie. She wasn't exhausted, wasn't even tired. It wasn't fatigue that dragged her down towards the depths of sleep. It was peace. Finally. Blissfully.

But not yet. Not until she gave herself up completely, until she surrendered that last part of what she'd been clinging to; not until she'd given him the start he was so desperate for, so much so that he'd break his own hands because he thought it would give him what he needed. "You want a band-aid, Scotty?" she asked, and her voice was slurred. "Take mine. I don't need it anymore."

And then she did let herself go, let her eyes roll all the way back, and let herself drift into that lazy darkness that came with sleep. Real sleep. Peaceful. And she could hear him, not speaking, but breathing… his pulse, still, slow and calm and soothing. It filled the room and filled her head and filled every part of her. They'd both be okay. And it didn't matter that a band-aid, however big, didn't make everything better. It didn't matter that neither of them were good as new, because one day they would be. There were no miracle cures, no magic wand that she could wave and take away everything that was broken inside them both. Putting a band-aid on his soul, soothing his tortured mind with the simple fact that he'd done right by her and by everyone and everything else he so desperately wished he could avenge, easing the fever of his psyche with the knowledge that he'd healed so much more damage than he'd caused… ripping her own band-aid off, standing on her own two feet in spite of the pain, releasing the lifeline she'd been clinging so desperately to because she _was_ alive and she _was_ safe, letting him take back the part of him she'd been hoarding, and knowing she'd survive without it… all of that… it didn't fix everything, for either of them. It didn't fix everything, but it was a start. For both of them, it was a start. And a start… hell, a start was everything.

* * *

**TBC**

_A/N: Whew…_

_I have a very rough idea in my head for wrapping this whole thing up, finally!… though I'll be damned if I can figure out whether it'll take one more chapter, or two. Suffice it to say, we're out of the woods at long last, and it's all just the tying up of loose ends from hereon out. Countless thanks to everyone who's taken the time to offer feedback (you have NO idea how much it means), and – in particular – to oucellogal and Sawyer, both of whom have somehow managed to offer consistently in-depth and overwhelmingly positive thoughts on every single chapter thus far. You guys rock like whoa._


	24. Heaven's Already Here

_A/N: As ever, countless thanks to the usual suspects for all the feedback and support… and, once again, apologies for taking so frellin' long getting this one done; once again, Real Life and fic-writing are not synonymous with each other (or, to translate, yep, Sawyer, I know exactly how it is!), and I found this one a nightmare to write anyway. The two combined, sadly, result in much delay getting it done. Nonetheless, it's here now, so enjoy!_

**24.  
Heaven's Already Here  
**

* * *

"Hey, Lil…" There was a heaviness in Vera's voice that made Lilly sit up and take notice, in spite of herself, and she couldn't quite keep a concerned frown from touching her features as he went on in that same low tone, "…when in the hell did things get so screwed up?"

It was a good question, and one that Lilly had no ready answer for. On the face of it, the answer seemed pretty obvious; things had got screwed up the minute Scotty had volunteered to investigate that goddamn house, with only an anonymous phone-call as evidence that there was anything worth investigating in the first place. But, somehow, that didn't seem right. Maybe it had started before that, with the goddamn donuts. Would Scotty have been so quick to run out on a waste-of-time mission if they hadn't teased him so mercilessly about the donuts? Would Miller have gone with him if Vera hadn't been so determined to win a point back in their stupid game of one-upsmanship? Would any of this have happened if either of them hadn't been there? A million other tiny little intricacies now flooded her mind, each one blown out of all proportion into an oversized bastardisation of explanation… and, when all was said and done, did it even matter what had been the starting point? It was enough, or should have been, that things _were_ screwed up. It wouldn't do anyone any good, least of all Scotty and Kat, to waste what time they had now on questioning how it had come into being.

"Dunno," she replied, standoffishly, and silently cursed herself for adopting that tone. She couldn't exactly blame Vera for wondering, but it was their duty as cops to _not_ allow themselves the leisure of second-guessing every damn twist of fate that came their way. Sure, it wasn't fair. They all knew that. Scotty had endured more than his share of guilt, and Kat had endured more than her share of pain; it wasn't right that they be the ones to go through this, while Lilly Rush and Nick Vera (both equally well-versed in those two extremes, if she was being honest) had to sit on the sidelines and watch those emotions tear their friends apart with no hint of reprieve. As the survivors of their countless homicide victims said, so damn often, it almost hurt more to be the ones left behind. To be the ones sitting there and watching, unable to do anything more than simply being there (and, hell, anyone could do that), and sure as hell unable to really understand what was going on in their friends' minds. Trying not to get personally involved in a case, however unpleasant, was one of the most difficult parts of their job… but, when it _was_ personal, how could anyone expect them to be detached?

Vera was watching her curiously, and Lilly felt her frown shifting from concern to aggravation. True, he'd asked a complex question, and she'd answered with exactly two syllables… but, hell, he was a cop; it was his job to know when to back the hell away from asking those emotionally damaging questions that only served to make everyone miserable without ever offering any kind of help to anyone. That was Nick Vera's way, to question things that didn't matter… and it was Lilly Rush's way to avoid answering those questions in the hope that they'd go away. While she would make no pretences of having any idea what Scotty and Miller were discussing (nor did she have any right to explore that), she was pretty sure they weren't sitting around trying to figure out when things had gotten so screwed up. In spite of Scotty's innumerable issues, Lilly couldn't deny that he was far better than she at handling trauma; likewise, there was no doubt at all in her mind that Kat Miller was far better than Nick Vera at dealing with the same.

Lilly Rush was the kind of woman who would take every traumatic experience, every heartbreak, every moment of suffering, and lock them away deep inside where none but her subconscious could see them. She'd have nightmares, and that would be fine… because, as long as her horror was inside her head, nobody else could see it. It wasn't the trauma that terrified Lilly Rush. No. It was the thought that, one day, someone might see through the cracks in her armour and spot the weakness that lay underneath. Lilly would never be able to deal with her demons, because that would involve acknowledging they existed, and doing so aloud. And, as soon as she did that, they became real, out in the open for everyone to see… and she'd worked too damn hard to become who she was to allow that to happen. It wasn't quite so colourful for Nick Vera, but in his own way, the man was just as unwilling to confront his troubles. Nick was the kind of guy who stood there, waiting and waiting, while the world came crashing down on him. The whole world would be running for cover, and Nick Vera would be standing there (perfectly content in his own oblivion) and refusing to even consider the possibility that he might need to get out of the way. He caused his own problems, Lilly knew, and as a result would never be able to seek solace from them. He never felt guilty, but he never blamed anyone else either. He was trapped within a spiral of ignorance and denial, refusing to acknowledge anything that didn't fit into his perfect world, and therein unable to ever come to terms with anything that went wrong within his life. Neither of them were even remotely equipped to deal with their own darkness; what in the world had possessed either of them to think for even a single moment that they'd had any chance at bringing their shattered friends back from the edge?

The thought was saddening and sobering in equal measure. She had, after all, been the one who'd opposed even the suggestion that Scotty might need to be here. Whatever the reason, it can't have been so damn important that it was worth dragging him away from the one person who was finally breaking through to him; and Lilly knew she wasn't flattering herself, there. It'd be easy to sugar-coat the situation with false modesty, but everyone knew that it was just how things were. Vera had said it. Kat had said it. Hell, the mere fact that she hadn't yet received a dozen phone-calls demanding her report on the rescue mission was enough to suggest that even the boss knew it (though he, unlike her less subtle colleagues, would never be so unprofessional as to make the statement aloud). It was Rush and Valens; had been for years, and would be – if she had anything to say about it – until the day one or the other of them retired. And maybe she couldn't deny that she'd felt just a faint flicker of jealousy at the thought of bringing him here for the sake of Kat Miller (and who in the hell was Kat Miller to make that sort of demand when she _knew_ what Scotty was going through better even than what she herself was going through?), when _she_, Lilly Rush, was and had been and would continue to be all he needed. She knew him. She knew how to break through his barriers. What did it matter that Kat had been there? Had she worked with him for five years? Had she worked with _any_ of them that long? Yeah… it wasn't something she was proud of, but Lilly could no more deny having felt that as fuel for the already torrid fire of her anger than she could deny the protectiveness and compassion that had equally been a spark for it. He was her boy. He _was_. But it hadn't been enough, and she was just now beginning to realise that. She could be there for him, twenty-four hours a day for the rest of his life, and it wouldn't be enough. She hadn't been there, this time, and she wasn't the one he was grieving over. She'd done all she could, and she'd done a damn good job of it… but there was nothing more he could take from her, and there was nothing more she could give him.

It wasn't Lilly Rush and Scotty Valens, not right now. It was Lilly Rush and Nick Vera sitting outside a hospital room, trying not to lose themselves in that sick disinfectant smell. It was Scotty Valens and Kat Miller, inside, working their way blindly through their twin trauma… and Lilly had to step back and let that happen. Maybe it was the intensity of their shared experience that had done it, and maybe it wasn't – Lilly had her suspicions – but, ultimately, it didn't matter. He and Kat had needed each other, it was just as simple as that, and it had taken Lilly longer than even Nick Vera to figure that out. It had taken the sight of Kat Miller to do it, the neon flashes of blinding white light flooding back through her own mind in empathic recollection. The memories of the crippling pain, the nausea, the stark truth of their fragile mortality. The sight of Miller, and the knowledge – firsthand – of what _she_ was feeling, and the sharp realisation that – in spite of all her countless insistences that Scotty was hers and Miller was Vera's – it was _she_ that Lilly suddenly found herself understanding. Scotty's guilt, she knew because she'd seen it within him too many times to count. Miller's pain, she knew because she'd been there. She'd felt it, she'd endured it, and she knew it. Inside out and outside in. Every last fragment of it. And she'd known. It had been right there in front of her, blazing bright as the glaring white lights had been. Lilly, all her experience and sympathy and compassion and all those deep-set emotions she felt for her partner, they were all in the past. Oh, they'd be there in the future too, of course. But they weren't in the present. Scotty no more needed her past or her future than he had needed any of this to happen in the first place. He'd needed to gain that perspective of the here and the now and what actually _was_ so much more than what had once been. He'd needed the present.

The present, right now, was Kat Miller and her hospital bed and her weird obsessions with stupid little things and her pain and her gratitude, and all the things _she_ was feeling – for herself, and for Scotty. Lilly had never been able to talk to him, not while she was here. And, by the time she _could_ talk to him – if only to tell him that he was stupid if he thought for one moment any of it had been his fault – well, the moment had long since passed. Kat was different. She was here and she was now and she knew what she felt and was willing to confront that. For all the countless ways in which Lilly saw herself as the superior detective, this was one way in which Kat Miller was the superior human being. It was about both of them, and Kat knew that. It was a subtlety that Lilly had never ever learned when it had been her turn (though, in her defence, she'd had more than enough superfluous issues on her mind long before she'd been shot to stop and worry about how _he_ was dealing with things). By the time Lilly Rush had made that realisation, the world had moved on… and she sure as hell didn't want to be the only idiot still stuck in the past. Not when the past was so dark. So she'd moved on, shrugged aside Scotty's sideways acknowledgements of the incident, and made no further effort than that, not until it came screaming back to her with all _this_. And, of course, now it was too late. Now it was somebody else's turn to bear that torch, and Lilly could only sit back to watch it and know that, once upon a time, it should have been her.

It helped, in an odd sort of way (in the way that admitted there was a regret hiding there that needed to be helped in the first place), to know that Vera was in the same situation. The man was about as sympathetic as an enema, and – at times – even more unpleasant, and there was no doubt in Lilly's mind that his impromptu query had been sparked (in part, at least) by that same carefully-concealed qualm in him. Nick Vera wasn't the kind of guy who liked to think that anyone was better than him at anything; he was the epitomal Alpha Male, of the kind that the police force was trying so damn hard to finally filter out and yet never quite succeeding. He was the guy who could give ten per cent of himself to something, and still come out in confidence that nobody in the world could've done as great a job as him. It must've been killing him to know that, the one time he gave the full hundred, the one time he cared enough to actually give all of himself in hopes of truly doing right by someone, it didn't matter 'cause someone else was giving ten per cent and doing better. Irony, Lilly supposed, was ironic that way. But, yeah, it helped to have him there with her, the two of them both as useless as each other, and both secretly (or maybe not so secretly, given the misery that painted itself so clearly across his face, and which he made no attempt to hide) wishing they were good enough. Difference was in the way they each looked at it. Lilly Rush felt like she'd let herself down in not being able to single-handedly keep Scotty above water; she was the one whose entire existence had been built around fixing other people's (and maybe, once that was done, taking a moment or two to consider her own), and who especially prided herself on being there for _him_ whenever the hell he needed it. Wasn't the same for Nick Vera, who – for all his machismo and egotism – felt like he'd let Miller down in not being able to do the same for her; he was a jackass who didn't know the first thing about compassion, and everyone knew it, but he'd tried… he'd _tried_, and that should have meant something, and Lilly knew it was killing him inside to know that, for Miller, it wasn't enough. So maybe that was why he'd posed his inappropriate question; not because he'd wanted an answer, nor because he thought it would help to dwell on the thoughts. No. He'd asked the question because he'd wanted, for even one brief moment, to know that he wasn't the only one left wondering.

Lilly sighed, meeting Vera's still-curious gaze with a shrug. "Dunno," she repeated. "But I'd guess it's got something to do with you and Miller, and your goddamn donuts."

Vera scowled at that, or tried to through eyes that – despite himself – were glittering with amusement. "Yeah?" he asked, in a voice that clearly said '_thank you for humouring me'_, while never quite straying from his characteristic many indifference. "What about your boy, huh?" he demanded. "Valens is the one who bought 'em in the first place, right? _Clearly_, he's the one who started it all. Can't blame me. Donut's sittin' there, I'm gonna eat it. It's all his fault."

"His fault you've got no self-control?" Lilly retorted.

An irritable pout crossed Vera's face at that, and Lilly found herself smirking. This was what he'd wanted when he'd asked the question, she realised. Didn't matter to him what she really felt. Didn't even matter what _he_ really felt. What mattered was that it gave them something to talk about, some means by which they could broach the issue that was really bothering them both – that of feeling displaced by the two people they'd never thought – without having to actually broach the issue. They were cops; next to lawyers, they were gold-medallists in the art of double-speak. They spent so much time bluffing and double-bluffing and triple-bluffing their suspects, the idea of having a genuine and unrestricted conversation amongst themselves was almost impossible. Unless, she mused with some lingering jealousy, it was between Scotty Valens and Kat Miller… because, apparently, _they_ were immune to all the rules. But, for mere mortals like Lilly Rush and Nick Vera, double-speak was the only language in which they truly excelled. To an outside interpreter, she could only imagine how pointless and ridiculous it must look to see two cops – both clearly tormented by some inner demon – arguing over something so ridiculous as a donut. And right then, she understood just why Vera and Miller did it so often.

"Ain't about self-control," Vera was muttering, shaking his head so violently she couldn't help wondering if he was trying to dry his hair or something. "It's about takin' something that's rightfully yours. Donut's there, nobody's eating it. It'd be a crime to leave it sittin' there, getting stale."

"Also a crime to steal something you've been not to," Lilly replied. "Besides, if memory serves, Prince Charming, weren't you the jackass who volunteered her to go in the first place?" She cocked a curious eyebrow at him. "Why'd you do that, if you weren't looking for an opportunity?"

"Hey, now…" Vera scowled. "Your boy started that, too!" For a moment, Lilly was half tempted to insist that he stop referring to Scotty as 'her boy', but – despite the crudeness with which he spoke the words – there was some odd sort of comfort in that title; as if hearing it spoken again and again would somehow reassert the fact that she and Scotty were a team, and no amount of shared tears between him and Kat could take that away. "He's the one that asked her to go with him. I just helped her say 'yes'."

"Helped who say 'yes'?"

Lilly spun on her heels, feeling a shameful (almost guilty) blush creep across her face as her eyes fixed themselves upon Scotty. He stepped gingerly out of Kat's room, easing the door shut behind him, and regarded Lilly and Nick with an enquiring frown. _Crap_, Lilly thought, flailing for words. _You're a goddamn cop, Rush. How is it even possible to be such a lousy liar?_

Thankfully for her, Vera wasn't. "Toni," he said smoothly, eyes raking over Scotty with curious appraisal. "Just talking 'bout that parking ticket… you remember." He made the point as a statement, one that left it unnecessary for Scotty to respond in either the affirmative or the negative, and swiftly moved on without changing pace; right then, and despite everything they both stood for, Lilly couldn't help admiring him a little. "How's—" Floundering a little, he cut himself off. "How're you? How'd it go? You doin' okay?"

Scotty chuckled, shaking his head in the same manner as a schoolteacher who had seen right through the worst lie his students could have possibly come up with. "She's fine, man," he said gently. "You could've just asked." And, finally, Vera did blush a little, looking down at his shoes with a mumbled apology, before raising his head a couple of seconds later to let his eyes rest on the door. Once again, Scotty shook his head. "Sleepin', though." He smiled a little, with a warmth that Lilly hadn't seen in him since… since long before this. A sense of peace, kind of, that was so pure he almost glowed.

The emotion was almost tangible, so much so that even Vera noticed it, his eyes widening slightly as he took in the changed demeanour of his colleague. "Lookin' pretty well-rested yourself," he pointed out softly, and Lilly felt herself smiling ever so slightly at the words and the realisation – the more she looked at Scotty and absorbed his condition – that Vera was absolutely right. More than just being at peace, warm and light, he did look just that. Rested. As if, in getting Kat to fall asleep, Scotty too had allowed himself to drift off. And not in the way he had while Lilly had been watching over him. Sleep without rest was no sleep at all. He looked almost like all the sleep he'd forced his body into giving him back at his place had been merely preparation for this, this moment of being truly rested, and Lilly had to bite her tongue to keep from asking what the hell had taken place between the two of them behind that door.

"Yeah," Scotty agreed, and his eyes fell on Lilly. "I am."

Lilly smiled, warm and true and all that he was. "Good."

She meant it. Just one word, spoken with as much warmth and genuineness as she could muster to match his own, but she meant it from the very depths of herself. She'd seen him sleep, for hours and hours, sat by his bedside while all he'd wanted to do was dissolve into unconsciousness and never again resurface; she'd seen him awaken, groan, and fall back again as if he'd been awake for days on end. She'd seen him lose himself, lash out with all his rage and heartbreak, strike again and again at the wall, and even through all that – the most life and vibrancy she'd seen in him since his rescue – at the very heart of him had been the exhaustion that would not end. She'd done everything within her power to bring him back from the edge of it, to see him return to life, but it hadn't been enough. She'd kept him from sinking into oblivion, had kept him on the right side of consciousness for long enough to see him _do_ something with himself… but she hadn't done enough to pull him back from that depthless fatigue. He was her boy, but she wasn't naïve enough to believe that there was enough in that bond to give him everything he needed. Not anymore. Oh she wanted to be, even now, with every fibre of her being. But she wasn't. It wasn't enough that they were partners, wasn't enough that Vera and Miller were partners. Maybe it had never been enough. Two and two, it would never be enough. They'd always be short of something. But one group, one _team_, of four? That was closer to the mark. That was closer to getting the job done right.

Experiences like these… they had innumerable effects, and not just on the people directly involved. Yeah, it was Hell – worse than Hell – for those directly involved; Lilly knew that from experience, and she was filled to the brim with grudging admiration for both her co-workers for not dissolving completely in the wake of this. But it was inevitable, a sort of butterfly effect, that a single person's suffering would cause that same reaction in everyone who was close to them. That was how this whole mess had gotten started, from what she could work out of it. The older Fitzpatrick had hurt Scotty's brother, which had vicariously hurt Scotty, who had lashed out in return, hurting the bastard and – again, vicariously – his entire family. It was a never-ending cycle, Lilly realised, and one that had landed an innocent bystander (whose only crime had, really, been an over-zealous love of donuts) in hospital, while the rest of the team flailed about in their own uselessness. Nobody had come out unscathed, and maybe that was for the best. They were a team. The four of them here, and the unsung two back in the empty office. When it had been Lilly herself, she knew, the world had stopped – in that moment – for everyone. Again, it had been Scotty in particular, but he had by no means been exclusive in his anxiety and grief.

It was the same now. They were a family. Stillman had said it, and Lilly had been thinking it long before he'd voiced the words. It was a simple fact. Just as Scotty had been unable to stand idly by while his brother suffered, not one of them could sit by and pretend not to care while any of their own were hurting. Scotty and Kat may have been the focus, may even have been the source of it… but they sure as hell weren't the only ones feeling the pain. And, just like the hurt, the healing too was an unending circle. If not for the scant help that Lilly had been able to offer, Scotty sure as hell wouldn't be here now, looking like he'd just stepped out of some spiritual tanning salon. Oh, sure, she'd been the one trying to convince him not to come, and – looking back now – maybe she wasn't quite so proud of that as she had been at the time, or quite so assured of her own rightness; but, far more important than that misstep in judgement, she'd been the one who'd got him out of bed in the first place, had got him to face those first of his demons, had sent him over the edge and forced him to confront the worst of himself. She'd moulded him into a man that Kat could heal. Granted, she hadn't realised it at the time, but she had. And, looking at the pride on Vera's face now, maybe he'd done the same. She didn't know what had passed between himself and Kat before that phone-call, and maybe she never would (and maybe she never _should_), but it had been enough to leave him shaken and her overwhelmed by the desire to see Scotty; so maybe he too had been a catalyst in this, just as important as Lilly. It was all about the others, their respective partners, all about their pain. But it was about _them_, too, a bit. The little they could do, it wasn't anything important… but, at the same time, and paradoxically, it had also been the crux of whatever the hell had passed between their colleagues.

"You gonna get that checked?" she asked, eventually, eyes wandering from the serenity of his face to the contrasting raw bruises that still marked his hands. "While we're here?"

He shrugged, and she frowned in disbelief. She (and, judging by his reaction, so too had Vera) had been expecting an outright refusal; Scotty Valens was the kind of guy that, however sober his mindset, would never stand up and confess to needing anything 'checked'. The closest she'd ever got out of him was the admission that a busted hand was hurting, and she knew damn well that he'd only done it then as a means of offering up something in return for her own confessions of that day. An unexpected blush crossed her face, and she silently cursed herself for dwelling on that. Joseph. Yeah, that confession had really been worthwhile, hadn't it? Just like it had been worthwhile for her to lay her damn career on the line for the guy. Best damn thing to come out of that relationship, as far as Lilly Rush was concerned, had been getting Scotty to admit he was hurt… but, then, retrospect was a precious thing, and it hadn't all seemed quite so bleak at the time. Things changed, she supposed, and maybe Scotty had changed a little since then, too. Not a lot, but enough, and she smiled.

"Sure," he agreed, quietly. "Since we're here, an' all…"

The disbelief faded from her eyes as she nodded; the last thing he needed now was to realise just how completely uncharacteristic she saw the gesture. Whatever the hell Kat had said to him, it had turned his head around and left him a different, healthier person. Lilly honestly couldn't figure out whether to slip just a fraction of an inch back into her previous jealousy, or whether to be so damn impressed that any other emotion would be washed away. It didn't matter in the long run, so she cast both alternatives aside with a dazzling smile. "Good boy," she said, and felt rather than saw the grin on Vera's face at her choice of word.

"You comin' too, Nick?" Scotty asked, eyeing the other man. "You can get 'em to x-ray your ass or somethin'. Turn it into a birthday card, an' mail it to the boss. He'll love it."

Vera laughed, but shook his head. "Nah. Damn hell-bitch has gotta get her ass outta bed sometime…" He trailed off for a moment, his entire face growing distant, and Lilly half-expected that he'd leave the moment at that, or else throw out some trademark inappropriate wisecrack. But he did neither, and that surprised her almost more than the transformation that Scotty's stint in the room had brought about. "I, uh…" Vera went on, then shrugged in such a way that said he was casting off his self-involvement and didn't care what the others thought of his uncharacteristic kindness. "I don't want her wakin' up alone… y'know?"

That one sentence, unobtrusive and soft-spoken, yet absolutely lacking in everything that usually made Nick Vera… well, Nick Vera… it cemented, in Lilly's mind, just how much they'd all been changed by this. By the simple act of Scotty convincing her to bring him here, of Kat's need to see him, and of Lilly and Nick being forced to wait outside. By all four of them being here, at the same time, together… dwelling simultaneously, yet at the same time separately, on all their similar (yet different) pains. They _were_ a family. It wasn't Rush and Valens, Vera and Miller, or any other combination. It was _them_. The team. All of them, together. The hell with the fact that, right at that moment, as always seemed to be the case, it was Lilly Rush leaving with Scotty Valens and Nick Vera staying with Kat Miller; when all this was over, and the pain had dissolved, they would (the four of them) all be in the same place.

"Want me to take you home after this?" she asked Scotty, quiet and unassuming, as they left. "Put you back to bed, let you catch some more of that elusive rest, or something? 'Cause I don't need to be—"

Scotty cut her off with a wave of his battered hand. His expression had darkened at that question, and – for just a moment – Lilly wondered if she'd said something wrong; but his eyes were not clouded now with sorrow or anger, or with any of the emotions that she associated so closely with him, but with contemplation. And, when the clouds finally passed and his eyes and face were clear again, they were more than just clear, but shining bright with peace and purpose. It was breathtaking.

"Nah," he said, after the silence had stretched to breaking put. "You know damn well Will an' the boss can't handle that place all by 'emselves." He let the sentence hang on the air, still smiling with that newfound serenity, and Lilly understood – or thought she did – that he was letting her go. Assuming, despite her insistence that she would make no assumptions about him, that he was letting her know he was all right to rest by himself, that he no longer needed her there to hold his hand while he slept. But he wasn't doing that either, and she couldn't quite keep her eyes from widening in shock (and, yeah, joy) as he went on, not even skipping a beat in his pace as he continued unerring down the corridor, "Ain't we got some murderers to hunt down or somethin'?"

* * *

**TBC**

_A/N: Whew. Just one epilogue-type scene left to do, and then we're done. Thanks, once again, for all the continued support and feedback &c._


	25. Good Morning After All

_A/N: I should, again, apologise for taking a long time on this one… but it's the last chapter, and I kind of wanted to drag it out as long as possible, because I didn't want to say goodbye to it… so I won't. Instead, I'll once again extend my heartiest thanks to everyone who's read this, everyone who's stuck with it 'till the end (hard going, I know!), everyone who's offered feedback (you guys rock my world, truly), everyone who thought about leaving feedback and never got around to it (I know the feeling!), and… well, to everyone. Honestly, the world's largest thank-you to everyone who's actually taken the time to read this monster. ;)  
_

**25.  
Good Morning After All**

* * *

The life of a cop was constantly in flux. Nothing ever stayed the same; it was always changing, always shifting. Your own position, the people you worked with, your experiences. Everything, right down to your faith, was in a state of never-ending motion. John Stillman knew this fact better than anyone; it was, after all, one of the things that kept bringing him back, every time the thought of bowing out presented itself. He couldn't leave, not really; what would he do without that ceaseless excitement in his life?

It never failed to astonish him, how a situation could pull a 180-degree turn in less than the time it took to blink, or how a witness one day could be a suspect the next. Nothing was concrete, nothing was solid. And maybe that was why he found himself looking around the office now, watching the comings and goings of people he'd worked with for years, and seeing it all through different eyes.

Once again, things had changed. A good detective, as far as Stillman was concerned, would find themselves changed by every single case they closed… every single soul they put to rest, every single family they gave some semblance of peace. It was the nature of what they did, and the nature of themselves as human beings to allow those moments to change them, to strengthen their reason for being here, to heighten their resolve to keep doing what they were doing. The moment John Stillman closed a case and felt nothing, would be the moment he knew that he would have to retire. The moment his emotions ceased reacting to what was in his heart and his soul and his very essence… it would be the day he'd know there was nothing left for him here. And he knew, beyond all knowledge, that the same could be said for every last detective on his team.

It shouldn't have surprised him, then, to see things return to normal so soon after they'd been thrust into so much chaos. At this stage in his career, nothing should have surprised him at all. Yet here he was, safely wrapped up by the four walls of his office, spinning in his chair like some kind of restless pre-teen, all the while feeling nothing short of flabbergasted. Because this had been _personal_. It hadn't been a situation wherein the end result had left him with a feeling of joy and pride at having done his job well and avenged the soul of a wronged victim. It hadn't been a box he could write 'closed' on, slide up onto a shelf, and sit back in satisfaction of a job well done. It had been his family, his team. It was the situation that no good lieutenant ever wanted to find himself in, and one that he himself had already faced (far too recently). It was personal.

There was an oddness about being the guy in the big office. He was dissociated from the others, as he knew he had to be, on a professional level. He was constantly looking out at them through glass doors and windows, seeing them from a completely different angle to the one from which any of them – with the possible exception of Will – had ever looked at themselves or each other. He was different from them, the father of the family he firmly believed they were. And it hurt to see his children hurt, feeling in his heart of hearts that it should have been him instead, even as he knew that was ridiculous. Feeling, if he couldn't be the one to take the pain on their behalf, that he should've – at the very least – been there to set things right, to hold their hands while the sting set in, to tell them they'd be all right. He was the guy in the big chair, the guy they trusted to keep them safe. Oh, they all knew the dangers of what they did (some better than others, and some far too well), but that wasn't the point. He was their lieutenant, he was the guy who called the shots. He was the guy who thought through every decision to make damn sure his team would be safe. And, twice, he'd failed in that.

He'd failed with Lilly. That, he knew, should've been him. He was there, he was the guy in charge. It didn't matter in the least to him that he had already been bleeding from a bullet wound by the time Lilly had taken Marteson and his hostage into the interview room. It made no difference, as far as he was concerned, that he'd been in no condition to do much of anything. What had mattered was the fact that he'd been there, and he should have found it within himself – however impossible it was – to step up so that Lilly wouldn't have had to. It was his fault. He hadn't taken Scotty's unpaid leave out of any responsibility to the man. No, the knowledge that Valens would remain on the team in his absence had been a pleasant side-effect that had made him exceptionally happy to be the instrument of, but which had been ultimately irrelevant. He'd taken the leave because it had been his fault. Valens had made the shot, Rush had taken the fall… but John Stillman had been the one to blame, and he'd be damned if he was going to let anyone else take the punishment for his failures.

So, he'd taken the punishment like a man, even if he'd been forced to convince the bastards above him that it was a punishment due for him and nobody else. And he'd made peace with himself and his shortcomings, and – with a little prompting from Rush (how could he ever say no to her?) – had returned to his post with an almost-renewed sense of dedication. He'd been tested, he believed, and he'd rose to the challenge and come out stronger than before. So it wasn't fair that he was being tested again, so soon after that. Hadn't be proven himself already? Hadn't he witnessed enough suffering in his family, without needing to be pushed even further? If ever there had been something to break John Stillman's faith in any kind of justice or higher power, this would have done it… but the old man was just too tired, and too damn stubborn, to let it happen.

In a way, it was easier. In another, it was harder. After it had happened to Lilly, he'd honestly believed that nothing in the world could be as difficult as that. He loved his daughter, very much, with the sort of love that had almost shattered his heart in pieces when he'd first laid eyes on his grandson and seen in those gleaming newborn eyes all the very best parts of her own creation. And he loved Lilly with a fierceness that could almost have rivalled that, the protective overbearing fatherly dotage that no amount of '_you're embarrassing me!'_ could possibly stem. Lilly Rush was almost as much a daughter to him as his own, and he wouldn't allow anyone to convince him otherwise. That was the way it was. So, to see her endure that, to see the blood with his own two eyes and see her struggle with the rift between life and death… he had truly believed that nothing in the world could possibly be harder. And, in a lot of ways, this wasn't. If nothing else, he hadn't witnessed it himself. In some ways, that lifted a touch of the burden; but, in others, it hurt more _because_ he hadn't been there to hold any of the weight, because he hadn't been there to take the sting off while his kids had been crying.

He'd known the extent of the damage, without ever having been allowed to see it for himself. He'd known from the fact that Lil, of all people, had taken time off and refrained from writing up her report on the entire sordid affair, in favour of being there by Scotty's side. He'd known from the pallor of Nick Vera's face, the haunted sympathy in his eyes, when he'd returned from the hospital after being so damn reluctant to ask for that afternoon off. He'd known, and yet he'd done nothing but sit in his office filing paperwork, as was expected of him. It had cut him to the quick, and there was no thing he could've done about it.

Knowing the pain was there, knowing that he had to stand tall and steadfast and carry on his duty as if nothing had ever happened, it tore him apart in a way that he'd never quite allowed himself to be broken when it had been Lilly; maybe it was one too many this time, and maybe it simply was the response to not having been allowed the small tragic solace of bearing witness himself this time. Whatever the reason, it broke him far more than he could ever have expected to know exactly how deep that hurt went, and yet to remain stoic and set apart like the man they expected him to be. Lieutenant Stillman. Boss.

No, it hadn't been easy for him. Sitting on the sidelines, playing the boss man. In that way, yes, it was harder than it had been with Lilly. At least with her, he'd been granted that moment of unprofessional emotion, in the instant he'd seen the blood. There had been none of that this time, and his grief had come vicariously through the sympathy and empathic suffering painted so clearly across the faces of Lilly and Nick. It was for the best, he knew, but that didn't make it any easier. Someone had to tow the line, be the man who remembered that they were still cops who had a job to do, and it made sense that he be that someone. After coming so close to retirement, so close he could almost taste the sea air, it would do him good in the long run to be the man who could hold up that ever-important side, the side that had to Get On With Things while the world came crashing down. He could grieve vicariously, and that would be enough to satiate the part of him that still insisted he must feel _something_, the part of him that desperately wanted to take the time and mourn for his team. But life had to continue, and all the more so in this scenario where their colleagues had been missing – not just hurt, but unheard from – for as long as they had. It was vital to feel, yeah. But sometimes it was just as vital to _think_.

By the time his emotions finally caught up with him, by the time that rational boss man had been pushed aside in deference to the father-figure who just wanted to know his kids were all right, everyone else was beginning the home stretch back to normalcy. Change was good, he knew that. It was good and it was constant and it was all the time. If he couldn't get used to change, he was in the wrong job. But right then, at that moment, glancing out from his office and hearing the ring of voices outside his door, he felt… old. Left behind. The guy who couldn't keep up with everyone else – not because he hadn't had the chance on this particular occasion – but because he was too tired and too worn out to run quite fast enough.

Frustrating thing was, the changes hadn't been particularly subtle. He should've realised that things were moving onwards when Scotty strutted back into the office, less than two full days after Lilly had insisted _he_ needed her full attention, the same afternoon that Vera had taken off to visit the hospital. John Stillman had to be one hell of a bad detective, to miss the glint in Lilly's eyes as she'd guided Scotty back to his desk, hand lingering on his arm as if she was afraid he'd fall if she let him go. The turnabout had struck him as peculiar; the glow of determination on Scotty's face as he'd swaggered into the office, in his characteristic style of owning the place, hadn't tallied with the certainty Stillman had heard in Lilly's voice when she'd insisted that Scotty need her with him far more than the PD needed her report on the incident. He'd trusted Lilly's instincts, of course, had trusted them too many times in the past and never been steered wrong, to start second-guessing her now. And, of course, he hadn't second-guessed her then, even seeing the brightness in Scotty's eyes as he returned to work as though he'd never been gone. The only hint of transition the lieutenant had really felt, if he was being honest with himself, had been a slightly puzzled wondering if maybe he'd missed something… a feeling he had quickly dismissed with a shrug by reminding himself that, of _course_ he'd missed something; he'd been _here_. How was he supposed to know how well his kids were recovering if he was unable to step out of the office and see for himself?

That wasn't _change_, he'd told himself. It was a page he'd missed in a novel he was reading, that was all. And, truth be told, he'd been so damn relieved to see Scotty back, to see that self-satisfied smirk on his face, that he hadn't stopped to think about the physics of it all. Valens was back. He'd go through counselling, because it was required, but he was back. Stillman knew as well as anyone that walking through those doors and facing _this_ place was – in a way – the most challenging thing a cop could do in the wake of trauma. He was back and, if it was change that had brought him back, some kind of shift in the way things were, well, who was John Stillman to throw a spanner in the celebratory works by worrying about that? If there was a change, it would hit him soon enough, he'd reasoned. He wouldn't be left behind entirely, no. He'd celebrate with everyone else, and he'd dwell on the progression of how things had come to be when that progression made itself known. And, as for Scotty? The counselling would come in due time; all that mattered to Stillman was the fact that his traumatised little boy was right back where he belonged.

It hadn't been so easy to deny the flow of change when Miller came back. She was unsteady, limping heavily with each step, and her face had been lined with fatigue; the lines had been a greater source of concern to him at the time than the wobbliness on her feet, but those had faded after two cups of coffee (and he'd been forced to remind himself that she always looked half-dead before she got half a gallon of caffeine in her). There had been a quiet sort of resolve in her, once she'd played the 'wounded cop' routine for long enough to ensure an endless supply of refills without ever having to leave her chair, and Stillman had admired that determination (and, in a different way, the playfulness) with an unease that told him – whether he liked it or not – things _were_ changing, and he would need to move along with them if he didn't want to be left behind completely.

Never in his wildest dreams had he imagined a situation wherein the return to normalcy would be the difficult part. It just wasn't the way things happened; the return to normalcy was supposed to represent the part where things had turned a corner, where the nightmares stopped and the unpleasantness was left in the past where it belonged and things finally returned to a familiar routine. It wasn't supposed to represent the fact that John Stillman had, in giving everyone else free reign in the aftermath – letting Rush and Vera take the saddle in consoling their colleagues, insisting that he and Will could hold down the fort by themselves – that, in doing all that without thinking, he'd given away any chance he had at moving along with them.

So, here he was. Lieutenant Stillman, the big boss man. Locked up tight behind his glass walls, gazing out at the world as it turned before his eyes, and he forever powerless to stop it. It was a strange, dissociated feeling, but one that usually gave him depths of insight that the others often missed in their infinite motion. Oh, he'd never be the one to claim superiority over them (he'd let Will do that on his behalf), but he knew as sure as anything that he'd been given the rank of Lieutenant for a reason. They all had their specialist skills, and this was his. Being the man behind the curtain, the guy pulling the strings, because he understood better than anyone else that _someone _had to do it. It wasn't an enviable job, not really, but he'd lived and learned enough by this point in his life to know that it was one he did well. It was difficult, yes, in situations like this; wanting nothing more than to step out from behind those glass walls and tell everyone – in no uncertain terms – that _he_ cared too. But that wasn't who he was. Anyone who knew him, knew when he cared; he didn't need to say it. So he remained behind his walls, watching in silence as the world shifted and everybody else moved on.

In a lot of ways, he mused thoughtfully as he allowed his gaze to pierce through the glass and watch the goings-on around the office proper, it was like watching the same scene he'd watched a thousand times before. And, in just as many other ways, it was like watching a room he'd never seen before, filled with people he had never met in his life.

Will Jeffries, quiet and unobtrusive sat in his little corner, watching them like Stillman was, but with the occasional light chuckle or gentle comment that suggested – in spite of the man's own qualms – he was _part_ of things. He was involved. He didn't say much but, every now and then, his eyes would sparkle with amusement, and his lips would twitch as they wrapped themselves around a clever remark. He was a part of things, that much was clear, but there was a hesitation about him that said he was perhaps a little uncomfortable being part of it. Will was a good man, Stillman knew, and a man who knew exactly when to draw exactly the right lines; but here and now, in the presence of two people who had been through so much, and two people who cared so deeply for those people that he could never compete, he seemed almost uncomfortable. As if he didn't really believe he had any place being there. As if he was expecting them to turn around and ask whether he wanted something. But, every once in a while, just as that anxiety began to slip ever so slightly into his face, one of the others would turn to him and smile so wide it melted every hint of doubt within him, and within Stillman too. Maybe he wasn't at the very heart of what had happened. Maybe he wasn't even that close to it. Maybe he was just that slightly eccentric uncle in the screwed-up family that was Homicide. Maybe. But what did it matter, when they loved him just the same?

Lilly Rush, in a gesture that Stillman found surprising, took the opposite approach. She was the one who often made the point of keeping her distance from everyone and everything, and it made him smile a little to see her casting aside her insular barriers for once. She stood behind Miller, the two of them studying something on a computer screen; Lilly's expression made it pretty apparent that, whatever it was they were looking at, it had absolutely nothing to do with work. She was laughing, light-hearted and gentle, and her hand rested almost unconsciously on the other woman's shoulder… a tiny, protective gesture that said a thousand things without ever saying anything at all. They were two of a kind, more so than they ever had been before; being the only two female cops in Homicide had been enough for them to build the barest foundation of a bond, but Stillman had never seen a moment between the two, not really, that had implied anything half as deep as what he saw in the simplicity of one woman's hand on another's shoulder. They'd been kindred spirits for a long time, but now they were dual survivors of experiences that none of the men could conceive.

Well, except perhaps Scotty, and Stillman noticed with a smile that – while Lilly remained in body beside Kat – her eyes (and with them, her emotions) drifted every few moments over to Scotty, as if she was drawn to him by some kind of magnetic force… as if she needed to know, not simply by _knowing_, but by _seeing_, that he was still there. As though she needed, on every possible level, to drink in his presence; as if the simple fact that he was there was so far beyond her comprehension, she needed constant reassurance that she wasn't imagining him. It surprised Stillman, because it wasn't the patented Lilly Rush empathy, of the kind he often saw her turn on victims; she wasn't glancing at him because she wanted to be there for him, because she felt he needed her. No, Stillman realised with a surprise that clashed with the warmth in his heart, she wasn't doing this for him at all. She was doing it for her. Her eyes were seeking out his because she needed him to meet them, because _she_ needed the reassurance of knowing that he hadn't forgotten she was there. It was everything that Stillman hadn't expected to see in her, but – in a strange sort of way – it offered a sense of encouragement so deep that it stole the lieutenant's breath. Stillman had absolute faith in Lilly Rush; granted, that faith had been shaken in the wake of her own trauma at the hands of Ed Marteson, and he'd found it often replaced with concern. But that was a different incident to this one, he had to remember, however many traits the two shared, and this one was a situation that didn't directly involve Lilly Rush; if she was finding herself constantly distracted by one of the true victims of this incident, then Stillman was happy that it was for her own peace of mind she was doing so. Being someone who needed to be needed, Stillman had learned long ago, was infinitely easier than being the someone who needed them. If it was _Lilly_ seeking out _Scotty_, that could only mean that Lilly was the one in need… which, while the thought made Stillman frown for a moment, meant that Scotty wasn't. And, as Scotty was the victim in all this, that meant a lot.

Nick Vera, like Lilly, had picked his side. His attention, too, wandered sporadically over to where Scotty sat, but in an entirely different way. Where Lilly would meet his gaze at every opportunity that presented itself, just to console herself that he was still there and still willing to accept anything that her eyes offered him, Vera saved it for when he had something to say. It was a coincidence, Stillman believed, that Nick Vera _always_ had something to say. When he turned towards Scotty, to make a point or laugh at something the other man had said, he did so with all of himself; Lilly would glance across only with her eyes, the rest of her remaining firmly by Miller, but Nick Vera turned towards Scotty with every last piece of himself, his entire body shifting to face the other man. The contact didn't mean as much, Stillman knew, as that simple eye-contact offered by Lilly Rush, but it meant something nonetheless. With Lil, Scotty's eyes would darken slightly as he met hers, as if they were sharing some depthless, painful secret; with Nick, he visibly lit up, as if they were sharing some private joke (which they probably were, judging by the mischief in Vera's eyes). The darkness spoke far greater volumes, but the light… that said something else entirely. It was what Nick Vera did; he could never be the guy who brought out the darkness and contemplation in anyone. He was the joker, the prankster, the guy who always went for the cheap laugh… and he was the only one among them who truly realised how precious those cheap laughs really were. Looking at Scotty now, as he laughed at some meaningless (and, no doubt, inappropriate) comment the larger man had made, Stillman couldn't help wondering how he had never seen that preciousness in the man before.

But there was, again, something less jovial in the way he looked at Miller. It was something secretive, but not in the way that Lilly and Scotty's darkness was shared between them in mutual understanding. When Lilly looked at Scotty with that hope, that desire to be seen and thanked and needed, it was because she wanted Scotty to look back and see her. Vera didn't do that; in fact, he seemed to make a conscious point to only allow his expression to falter when he _knew_ that Miller wasn't looking at him. As if his desire to be needed and wanted (and, there was no doubt in John Stillman's mind that it was the exact same desire burning in both his detectives' eyes) was his alone, as if it would bring shame and ruin upon him if Miller ever found out about it. Or, possibly, as if he knew she'd kick his ass to the moon if she did. There was no telling with that woman. But it was a look that the lieutenant had only ever seen in the insensitive Nick Vera a handful of times, a look that said he wanted nothing in the world more than to be the man who could make things right, to be the man that Miller would lean on when she needed to stand up, to be the man she leaned on emotionally as well as physically. To be something more than the nobody she guilt-tripped into re-filling her coffee cup every ten minutes. Part of him wanted her to look up and see him, Stillman knew, but the largest part of him was terrified of that, was ashamed to admit to it… and maybe, just maybe, knew that it wouldn't make any difference to either of them, even if she did. It wasn't the way their relationship worked and, while it was visibly tearing Vera apart right then to not be the guy who could rise to the occasion and be the hero, Stillman knew he'd be grateful for that distance when all of this fallout was deep in the past.

Kat Miller certainly seemed to believe that; at least, to all outward appearances. She didn't look at any of the others, not even when making her loud-mouthed retorts to Vera's equally loud-mouthed quips. Her eyes were fixed on the computer screen, so intently that Stillman worried she'd strain her eyes before the morning was out. She laughed, and glared, and went through the motions of being everything she had been before all this had started, but Stillman could see as plain as daylight that she'd been touched by it on a level that she probably hadn't even known she had. It always seemed to take trauma, he mused, to make people realise just how deeply their souls went. There was nothing subdued, nothing quiet, and nothing restrained in anything that Miller was doing or saying… but there was an aura about her, that screamed at a volume so loud that Stillman found it almost deafening, '_I have looked into the Abyss, and it has changed me'_. A particularly cutting jibe from Vera, and she flinched involuntarily, eyes flashing dark with what Stillman recognised as feminist pride; she moved to stand up, to draw herself upright and use what height she had to aid her rebuttal… but, of course, her body refused to comply with the sudden and unnecessary motion, and she remained in the chair as if it was holding her in place, scowling like a child that had been told it was not going to have a second helping of ice-cream. A string of obvious obscenities spilled from her lips and (while Stillman made no feints at being particularly good at lip-reading) a word he could've sworn was '_Minesweeper'_, followed by an exaggerated sigh. And, through all this, her eyes never once came into contact with anyone else's, not even for a moment. As if she was playing out a drama inside her own head, and the people that surrounded her weren't really there at all.

He was worried about her, but not in the same way he'd been worried about Lilly when it had been her. Lilly had been almost obnoxious in her assertion that she had recovered, putting off the necessity of counselling as long as possible, until such a point as his insistences simply weren't insistent enough to convince her. Stillman didn't see that problem repeating itself with Kat Miller; the woman seemed almost dissociated from herself, as if she was living on the edge of a different world, but she knew it. She had a self-awareness that Stillman found quite unnerving at times, and she knew that she wasn't entirely there just yet. She was back at work because she needed the routine, because it kept her grounded through all the chaos that no doubt still swam through her. He could see it in her eyes, the intensity with which she studied the computer monitor. A part of her, he could see, couldn't wait to get into therapy and begin to put the nightmare behind her. She'd never admit it in a million years, of course, but she wouldn't need to. She'd just need to do what had to be done, and do it with a smile. And she would. He had no doubt about that, and so – placing his faith in her, in a way he'd placed it in Lilly from her very first day – he cast aside that worry and concern and let her endure on her own, as she wished it.

Scotty Valens, through all his apparent progress, Stillman was less inclined to place his faith in. Oh, he wanted to, almost more than he'd wanted to place it in Lilly after her incident; day by day, Scotty was looking healthier and stronger than he had the day before, and Stillman could feel the resolve and the emotional acceptance emanating from him like a beacon of hope. But there was something amiss about him. He was Scotty Valens, and Stillman knew just how deep the man's guilty conscience went. He was… rested. Healed, in places, but raw in others, and trying to get a fix on how he was or _who_ he was at any given moment was like clutching at invisible straws for John Stillman (who otherwise prided himself on his capacity for seeing the depths of people from behind his glass window). It was impossible to get a fix on Scotty Valens, because he was such a myriad of complexity. The man went through more colours of emotion in the space of five minutes than any of the others went through over the course of an entire day, even Lilly Rush; and, looking at him now, Stillman could understand why Lil sought so desperately to keep his focus on her. If he focussed on her, on whatever she and he shared while she'd been watching over him those first two days, then maybe it would give him something solid and static to cling to. A single emotional range on which to build; whether that would be a good thing or a bad thing, John Stillman didn't know, but it would be something to keep him from lapsing into that chameleonic mania that flowed through him now.

Just as Lilly was doing, through all his silent studies of his team, Stillman found his attention constantly drawn back to the chaotic, peaceful beacon that was Scotty Valens. There was so much inside him, good and bad, better than good and worse than bad. There was peace and solace and a bruised sort of comfort that was enough to assure the lieutenant – however damaged the man still was – he could absolutely rely on him to do his job without hesitation, whatever that job happened to throw at him (and they all knew painfully well how brutally unpredictable the world of Homicide could be). There was also a depthless sadness, and that guilt that never seemed to go away, and a pain that was almost physical it was so deep. There was so much, so very much, and there was no power in the world that could allow John Stillman to break through it all. Scotty Valens was a mystery wrapped in an enigma and immersed in a lake of guilt and self-doubt, but he was one of the most intuitive and inspired men John Stillman had ever had the pleasure of working with. It was no coincidence he'd opted to take Scotty's punishment leave for him, and nor was it solely a result of his own lingering guilt over the whole messy affair. Scotty deserved better than his circumstances allowed him, and it was Stillman's responsibility, as the father of their dysfunctional little family, to make damn sure the man got what he deserved out of his life and his career, through and in spite of all the lethal curveballs they both insisted on throwing at him, time and time again.

Like Kat, Scotty too would go through the required therapy unquestioning (and maybe Stillman would pull some strings and insist that the two of them take a couple of sessions together), and he would come out changed and grown and different, but still the same crack detective he'd always been. He was well and strong enough to be here now, Stillman had no doubt of that, as was Miller. He watched them both now, his eyes losing focus ever so slightly as he brought both their figures into his field of vision, and he smiled.

Scotty was still overflowing with chaos, and Kat was still dissociated and broken… but they were here, and they were doing their job (or, quite possibly, arguing about the Minesweeper top score, Stillman couldn't be positive), and there was no doubt in his mind that they were both just as capable of doing whatever needed to be done as they had ever been before everything had started. They weren't fixed. They hadn't taken some miracle cure and returned to work void of all the scars that he knew must have been so clearly cut across both of them. They were changed; the most fundamental essence of who they were, who they both were, and who the others were, had been changed, and it was never going to go back to the way it had been. John Stillman had sat back, in his glass house, and watched as stones had been thrown all around him, unable to do anything himself but hope for the best and pray that his children would have the strength and the courage to pull themselves through the worst of it, to bring themselves to this point, being back here, in _his_ house, so he could take over the hard work and pull them the rest of the way onto dry land. A man could learn a lot from watching in silence, and John Stillman had every intention of using all his knowledge to the greatest benefit of his team. His family.

He remembered telling Vera, when they'd first mounted their rescue efforts, that you pulled the stops out with family, and he believed that. But it didn't apply just to the rescue effort. It applied here, too. He'd make sure they got their counselling, and he'd make sure they got the best. He'd make sure Vera kept bringing Miller as much coffee and as many donuts as she wanted (and he would take no shame in threatening to remove Minesweeper from all office computers if he refused). He'd make sure that Lilly got as many opportunities as possible to keep those eyes darting towards Scotty, and that Scotty would have just as many opportunities to return that soul-searching gaze and sustain the hope for both of them. He'd make sure that Will Jeffries never felt too alone, however quiet and small the old man made himself; however desperately he insisted that they didn't really need him anymore, Stillman would prove him wrong. He would do everything within his power to keep his family together, through this and through everything else that would inevitably come at them. Not because he had to. Not because he wanted to. Because they were family, and that was what a family was. They were bound, all six of them, by mutual love and respect, and it was John Stillman who needed to continue being the voice and the carrier of that fact. They were family, and they were there. For themselves. For each other. Forever.

* * *

**The End  
**_(Finally!)_


End file.
